The Longest Distance Between Two Places
by RZZMG
Summary: Time is immutable... but filled with magical possibilities. Hermione Granger discovers this truth after an accident in the Department of Mysteries leads to a series of bizarre, random, fantasy-like encounters with a strange, handsome young man donning Slytherin colours. Time-travel/fulfilling destiny/star-crossed lovers fic. Drama/Romance/Angst. 2013 Hermione-Smut Fest entry.
1. Chapter 1

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

**This was my entry for the 2013 Hermione-Smut Fest (hermione-smut . livejournal . com). ****The fest is long over and reveals are out, so I can post this for you here. This fanfic is multi-chaptered, but complete. I will post a chapter up every couple of weeks until it is finished.**

**Here was the prompt I worked from:**

_Prompt: #5 - As an Unspeakable, Hermione has decided to work with the magic of Time and Dreams. Unexpectedly, one of her studies/experiments backfires on her, and she ends up getting flung back and forth through time whenever she falls asleep, only to go back to her 'normal' time upon waking. Each time she travels, she ends up running into the same Death Eater. Why do they have a connection & how can she break it so she'll stop travelling around? Her lack of restful dream sleep is beginning to kill her! _

_Harry Potter Pairing(s): Hermione x Tom Riddle (not Snakeface!Voldemort, but SexyEvil!Tom), or Rabastan Lestrange, or Regulus Black, or Nott Sr. (Theo's dad), or Draco Malfoy_

_Suggested Kink(s): Mix-and-match any of these elements as you see fit, author - Dark!fic, Non-con, Dub-con, Consensual Sex, Bondage, Spanking, Rough sex, Sex in places other than a bed, Anal, Oral, Bukkake, Silk, Cropping, Nipple/clit spanking, Toys_

_Additional Comments: Does Hermione's interaction in the past change things slightly in her timeline & how so? How does she break the cycle? You decide, author, but these issues must be addressed in the story. Please no scat, watersports, felching, fisting, snowballing, or santorum._

**This fic was imagined after watching that scene in the "Prisoner of Azkaban" movie, when the unknown wizard in the Leaky Cauldron is stirring his teacup with a finger and reading Stephen Hawkings' "A Brief History of Time". Consequently, it deviated a bit from the prompt, but I hope you'll like it anyway! **

**M****UCHO thanks to my beta, Desiree (D-Irish/MalfoyMaiden), for her super-ultra kind offering to take on this monster fic at the 11th hour, and her excellent suggestions for making the story read better – THANK YOU SO MUCH, D!**

**A BIG-UBER thanks to the Mod, scifichick774, for hosting such a great party, being so understanding and kind, and for letting me play in her comm. I've enjoyed this opportunity, and look forward to next time!**

**Please review!**

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**DISCLAIMER: **"Harry Potter" is the property of J.K. Rowling and Warner Bros. This fanfiction was written entirely for fun, not for profit, and no copyright infringement is intended. All characters depicted in sexual situations are above the age of consent.

**TIMELINE:** begins Hogwarts era (head canon mixed with A/U), ends Post-Hogwarts (EWE)

**MAIN CHARACTERS (alphabetical order, last name):** Hermione Granger, Rabastan Lestrange

**SECONDARY CHARACTERS WITH SPEAKING ROLES (alphabetical order, last name):** Fleur Delacour-Weasley, Albus Dumbledore, Mr. & Mrs. Granger, Luna Lovegood, Remus Lupin, Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, Bill Weasley, Ginny Weasley, Ron Weasley

**SUMMARY:** Time is immutable... but filled with magical possibilities. Hermione Granger discovers this truth after an accident in the Department of Mysteries leads to a series of bizarre, random, fantasy-like encounters with a strange, handsome young man donning Slytherin colours.

**RATING: **NC-17 (MA)

**WARNINGS:** Head canon fic (plot weaves around actual canon events, but completely A/U regarding the events of Hermione's relationship with Ron), Time travel fic, Explicit Het sex (consensual-virginity loss for Hermione); Explicit profanity; Use of real, current scientific theories surrounding time-travel and universal particles; Use of JKR's canon information twisted to make this plot work; Characters a bit OCC for the sake of this plot.

**Author's Additional Notes: **Title of this story comes from the great Tennessee Williams' _The Glass Menagerie_, in which he writes, "time is the longest distance between two places".

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**_THE LONGEST DISTANCE BETWEEN TWO PLACES_**

**By: RZZMG**

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**~.~.~.~.~.~**

_**1 June, 1991**_

_**The Granger Home, Lingfield, Surrey**_

**~.~.~.~.~.~**_**  
**_

The stranger had blue, twinkling eyes and a long, white beard. His jaunty cap was decorated with embroidered stars in silver thread, and his floor-length, magenta robes were done up the same.

Hermione liked him; this funny-looking old man named Dumbledore, who'd come to her home to tell her parents something important (something about her unique 'abilities', she was quite sure), but most especially, she was enchanted by the colour of his eyes. They reminded her of the _Glaucus atlanticus_ – her favourite marine mollusk, and the clusters of Brooklime that lined her mother's garden, and the nice man with the sad face who sometimes sat on the bench in the park where she played (he fed the ducks and smelled like a candy store, and had eyes so pale blue, they were almost white). She'd always wanted eyes that same shade – the colour of the sky. They reminded her of playful days, of endless possibilities, and of secrets.

Her own plain, mud-coloured eyes had always bored her; they were the most average of average, and if there was one thing Hermione did not like, it was being considered 'average' at anything – even something as trivial and unalterable as her physical features.

A chair scraped in the small dining area adjacent to the kitchen, where her parents were currently talking in low tones with their elderly caller, and Hermione quickly ducked down behind the couch, where she was eavesdropping, hoping not to get caught. She wondered what they were saying. Was it something bad? She'd been so careful lately, working hard to control her spontaneous telekinesis; she hadn't rattled a single pot in the house in over a year.

Frustrated with her inability to hear anything of substance, she crept forward, attempting to be stealthy. It was terribly rude to listen in on others' conversations, she knew, but insatiable curiosity had always been one of her more dominant personality traits and it was difficult to curb it, especially knowing the discussion in the next room involved her.

"You're sure?" her father asked, holding an old, worn letter in his hand. It looked dirty and rumpled, and the paper was a thick, old-world styled parchment, like what her grandmother liked to write on when she sent out her letters. "She's really going to… She's meant to… You're _quite_ sure?"

Dumbledore gave a somber nod. "I'm afraid there is no mistake. Your daughter has a great destiny before her, Mister and Missus Granger. The question is: will you allow it to unfold as it was meant to?"

Hermione frowned. She knew what 'destiny' was, and she didn't much believe in it, preferring to subscribe to the idea that everyone made their own decisions. The idea of some imaginary cosmic deity was weaving an inescapable web of every person's life seemed laughable to her.

Besides if she had a destiny, her parents couldn't stop it, even if they did protest, so why bother asking their permission at all? It seemed completely unnecessary.

Just then, Dumbledore glanced over at her, giving her a wink and a smile, as if he'd known all along just precisely where she was and what she was up to.

Caught snooping, Hermione sighed, stood up, and joined her parents and their visitor in the kitchen. If they were going to discuss her future, then she might as well be a part of it.

**~.~.~.~.~.~**

_**18 June, 1996**_

_**Ministry of Magic-Department of Mysteries, London**_

**~.~.~.~.~.~**_**  
**_

Hermione assessed the line of Death Eaters to her right and left, noting that there were none behind their small group; _thank Merlin_. At least there was the chance for them to escape, so long as Harry kept talking and Lucius Malfoy kept his cronies at bay until the conversation was finished.

They'd been so easily lured into this trap, just as she'd suspected might happen given Harry's erratic behaviour this year, but her best friend had been adamant that he was coming here with or without anyone else, the stubborn boy, and she'd decided long ago never, ever to let Harry James Potter dive off cliffs without her there to be his suicide-prevention net. The boy had a death wish.

Fortunately, she'd already had _plenty_ of practice at getting Harry and her friends out of bad scrapes... although never one as dire as this, she had to admit.

Listening with half an ear to some shrill witch's mocking of Harry, Hermione focussed instead on considering defensive spells once the fighting began, and on recalling the way out of the purposefully disorienting and twisting labyrinth of the Department of Mysteries. Half a dozen hexes pulsed on her tongue, waiting to be unleashed at the proper moment, and although the wand light made it difficult to peer into the distant darkness, Hermione was confident that she remembered the correct path back towards the lifts, having memorized her steps to this point and kept her sense of direction, even underground.

From the corner of her eye she spotted Harry raise his wand, and mimicked him, tensing. When she heard Ginny being threatened, she stepped back and crowded in like a mother protecting her cub; they'd touch her friend over her dead body!

A lone Death Eater dared to inch forward from between the shelves to her right, his silver mask gleaming against her illuminated wand tip. She could see his eyes as clear as day – a blue-white that was vibrant and clear, steady and fixed on her alone. He took another step, then another, until he was standing a metre away. His wand was aimed at just over her left shoulder, she noticed, trained on Ginny like the others in his group. Hermione shifted a bit to block his aim and took a deep breath to clear her shaky nerves...

The strong, masculine scent of liquorice and cloves wafted past her nostrils.

Kretek. She recognised the smell, as her mother had once smoked the tobacco-spice blend, too. She recalled when she was younger the man who had fed the ducks in the park had also smelled like the stuff – candy sweet, with a tiny hint of masculinity, like Port wine. Kretek were a Muggle invention, though.

What would a Death Eater be doing with Muggle cigarettes?

Almost imperceptively, the lone Death Eater's gaze dropped to her lips and even through the holes in his hideous, metal disguise, the edges of his eyes crinkled upwards as if he were smiling under the mask – as if he were amused by her.

Hermione glared at him. The evil git was mocking her.

Just as the psycho witch to Hermione's left screamed something at Harry about 'shut your mouth', the Death Eater in front of her did something slimy and sneaky – something that made an odd, embarrassing moan escape her lips: he caressed her magical aura with his own with a whisper of an unknown spell and a gentle release of his will. The touch was silken fingers sliding against her naked, heated skin, soft and arousing. An electric spark of pure pleasure shot up and down Hermione's spine in response, making her shiver and causing her heart to accelerate.

Shaking at the unfamiliar feelings that coursed through her, and upset that such a spell even existed, Hermione bared her teeth at the man, angry that he would dare such a thing. _Pervert,_ she thought, casting her disdain at him across the space.

His answering chuckle was soft, but she heard it, even over the shattering of glass orbs very close to where she stood, as some mad Voldemort loyalist unleashed a spell. Fortunately, it was blocked from reaching its true target by someone else.

_Foolish... pay attention! _They were in the middle of a fight for their lives, for Merlin's sake, and her inattentiveness could have just cost them everything!

Steeling her nerve, her wand arm went rigid once more, and she squared her shoulders, facing down the Death Eater in front of her. _When it starts, you're my first target,_ she let him know with a narrowing of her eyes, preparing a special Stupefication spell just for him. He acknowledged her challenge with a small nod... and another chuckle.

The rotten git was laughing at her.

**~.~.~**

The fine sand particles from all those broken hourglasses from the Time-Turner cabinet in the Time Room stung Hermione's nose as she beat feet through the bizarre dust cloud hot on Harry and Neville's heels, leaving behind one unconscious Death Eater–the one with the pretty blue eyes who had toyed with her earlier–lying by the ruined grandfather clock, and his partner, the squalling baby-headed Death Eater, to their fates.

As she ran, she hastily wiped at her face to get the burning and itching in her sinuses to stop, and noted blood staining her hand. Great, she had a nose bleed on top of everything else. _Just perfect!_ There was no time to stop and pinch her nose to staunch the flow, though, as two more Death Eaters appeared before them in a flash. She and her two friends instinctively ducked into a side office.

There was no other exit to the room, she immediately noticed. They were trapped. Maybe she could blow a hole through the back wall into some other office…

She turned to lock the door behind them, but was knocked back and off her feet by an unexpected _Impedimenta_ spell as the door was forced back open by two new Death Eaters. Fortunately, Hermione didn't fall back into anything too solid, as she'd been tossed against Neville. As a result, she was able to immediately roll over and magically Silence one of the wizards from shouting out their location to his companions.

Then, Harry was back in the fray, too, casting a Petrify spell that hit its mark.

She was just congratulating him on his good form, when she was struck in the chest by a non-verbal spell from the Death Eater she'd _Silence'd_. The spell had emitted a menacing purple flame that sank into her abdomen, going bone-deep. It short-circuited her nervous system in a blink, like turning off all the lights in her head at once.

"Oh!" was all she had time to exclaim before darkness rushed in on her from the sides, engulfing her in its embrace.

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_**TO BE CONTINUED...**_

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**Author's Notes:**

**Please review!**

**Scenes borrowed from J.K. Rowling's novels and re-written into Hermione's POV for this chapter:___  
Chapter 34 - "The Department of Mysteries" - __Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix_**

**Glaucus atlanticus - (commonly known as the sea swallow, blue angel, blue glaucus, blue dragon, blue sea slug and blue ocean slug) is a species of small-sized blue sea slug. They are uncommonly beautiful, but venomous creatures known best for eating Portuguese Man-o-War. They do not usually survive in captivity and none have been successfully bred in captivity either. Google them if you get a chance. They are a natural, amazing wonder in this world.**


	2. Chapter 2

**~.~.~.~.~.~**

_**18 June, 1996**_

_**St. Mungo's Hospital, London**_

**~.~.~.~.~.~**_**  
**_

Whether the strange dreams she suffered while slipping in and out of consciousness later that night while she was in the Emergency Room at St. Mungo's had been a result of the unknown curse cast upon her by the man Lucius Malfoy had referred to as 'Dolohov', or the result of the regime of potions stuffed down her throat by the Healers who fought to save her life, Hermione could not have said. The only thing she could attest to with certainty was that in her random moments of lucidity, she'd been aware that all five of her senses had become ultra-sensitive in the registering of sounds, sights, and smells. The tiniest noise, a sliver of light, a lingering scent upon someone's clothing had all been painful experiences.

She'd also recalled a particular moment when a Medi-Witch opened the door adjoining Hermione's room with the one next to hers, hurrying in with a tray loaded with potions. The witch had requested a private word with Hermione's Healer, drawing the man to the side…

_"It's as you feared: the condition of the patient next door remains the same,"_ the witch had explained to her superior. _"We've tried every traditional remedy, but he remains comatose. It's as if... well, that he were somehow locked in a permanent Petrification spell, but doesn't react to any of the usual spell reversal efforts."_

They'd begun discussing alternative treatments regarding specialized curse-breaking for the injured man, and even the possibility of requesting from the Ministry the aid of an Unspeakable, if necessary, but Hermione had simply tuned out the rest of their conversation, all of her senses suddenly focussed on a particular scent drifting in through the open door at just that moment. It had been distinct and sharp – a liquorice aroma smoothly blended with that of sweet clove. She'd inhaled a deep lungful, recognising the Kretek scent from earlier that night...

Somewhere nearby, a clock had chimed the hour – twelve tolls, signalling midnight's arrival.

**~.~.~**

Hermione blinked.

**~.~.~**

The rolling train's luggage carriage was icebox cold. Her breath crystallized in the air as she exhaled, and her bare feet stung from the icy wooden floor under her heels. No wonder they allowed toads, bats, and other small familiars that weren't adapted to such extreme temperatures into the passenger compartment; they'd freeze to death in here otherwise!

She looked around, curious as to how she'd ended up on a train at all. Hadn't she just been in the hospital, flat on her back and seriously injured?

As she patted herself down and took inventory, she realised she was upright, without a single wound, wearing a thin hospital gown and no shoes – wandless and ill-dressed for the temperature, but very much alive and well.

There came the sound nearby of a deep inhale, as if someone were taking a drag off a cigarette, and then an exhale, followed by a soft cloud of liquorice and clove scented smoke wafting over her.

"Well, well, what have we here?" Footsteps approached. "You lost, little bird?"

"I'm not sure," she admitted, waving off the fumes. "I might be."

Blinking furiously against the sting of tobacco smoke, she looked up… and fell into a pair of startling blue eyes.

Their colour wasn't the teal-blue of a Caribbean ocean, like Charlie Weasley's eyes, nor did they match the indigo irises of Lavender Brown, nor did they contain the incandescence of a rich sapphire's heart, like Ron's gaze. No, these eyes were a rare shade of blue that seemed trapped between seasons, capturing both the bright chill of early spring skies and the diamond white of winter's snows. They were utterly beguiling – and vaguely familiar, although she couldn't place where she'd seen them before.

"Anyone home?" the wizard before her joked, waving a hand in front of her face.

"S-sorry?" she stammered, recovering from her shock and glancing around. "I'm... not quite sure what I'm doing here."

The young wizard–a Slytherin, going by the insignia and colours on his school robes–stepped closer. "Are you ill? Do you need help?" he asked, giving her the once over, his brows furrowing. "Nice assets, by the way." He smirked and made a crude gesture with his cupped hands, referring to her unbound breasts and their embarrassingly erect nipples.

Scandalised that a complete stranger would make such an inappropriate comment, Hermione gasped and crossed her arms over her chest to hide her humiliation. "Pervert, don't look!" she chided him. "And no, I'm not ill. I just got lost, I think," she replied, glancing around again, confused. "Although, I'm not quite sure how that's possible. I closed my eyes for only a moment, and then I was... here."

A warm current of air blew past her exposed neck as the boy let out a deep sigh and scratched at his left forearm over the cotton of his uniform's shirt. "You sure you're not a run-away from the Janus Thickley Ward, 'cause you sound as if you're suffering memory loss."

What could she say? She had no idea how she'd gotten here, or why she was still dressed in her hospital gown. _Had _she run away from the hospital, and somehow forgotten all about the how and why of the matter? Memory Charms were notoriously slippery, and someone could have used one on her – but for what purpose, and who would have cast such a thing upon her?

She took a good, long look at her companion then, curious as to who he might really be. He was about her age, thin and tall; she had to bend her neck back to look him in the eye, so she was guessing he was over six feet. He sported a Slytherin winter school uniform, that looked to be expertly cut of the finest wool and well-tailored, and his shoes were equally as expensive. His chestnut-brown hair was short on the back and sides, and stylishly cut to appear casual and rakish. His bangs were short, swept off to the side to hide a small scar near his temple that she could just spy from this angle. He had a strong chin and jaw, and his nose was long and straight. He also had a sweet dimple on his left cheek and a set of full, sexy lips. Ginny would call them lips a girl could kiss for hours...

What was she thinking? This was neither the time nor the place for such foolishness - and it was _wholly_ not like her to consider such a thing about a complete stranger as well. Something was very wrong, indeed.

"It's too early to head for Hogwarts on the Express, isn't it?" she asked, confused as to why her companion would be dressed in his winter uniform and going back to school in the middle of summer.

He chuckled. "Wrong train, luv. This is the passenger train between the school and London. We've just pulled out of the station, in fact."

She frowned. "Kings Cross?"

He shook his head. "Hogsmeade. We're heading back to the city."

Hermione took a good, long look at the young man, startled by his implication. "Are you... _are you_ _running away from school?!" _

The thought was scandalizing!

Reaching into his pocket, the Slytherin pulled out a pack of Kretek cigs and offered one to Hermione. She refused it with a single shake of her head and a crinkling of her nose. _Foul things, cigarettes._ He gave her a challenging smile and shook the pack at her again. "You sure?" When she rejected it a second time, he put it back in his inner robe pocket, undaunted by her rejection. "Not one for breaking the rules or walking the wild side, are you? Well, then you're in the wrong company, luv." He pointed a thumb at himself. "I'm all about the bad. And yeah, I'm dropping school and never going back. Who needs it when you come from money?"

"But you can't!" she argued, horrified to her core at such an idea. "Education is important! It's one of the most essential foundations of a person's life! How do you plan to get a job and support yourself and a family someday without an accreditation? Besides, don't you want to be a productive member of society – to throw off oppression and help build a better world?"

There was a moment's pause as the stranger absorbed what she'd said... and then he began laughing. He hooted and hollered with raucous delight, as if he couldn't believe anyone could be so idealistic. Personally, Hermione didn't find the situation to be the least bit funny, and was rather annoyed that this stranger was poking fun at her ideas. "Stop," she growled, lightly shoving his shoulder. "It's not funny. The world _does_ need to change. It's become an awful place. Someone needs to stand up for what's right. I meant that."

"I know you did! You're a regular Emmeline Pankhurst, aren't you?"

Hermione raised an eyebrow at that. How on Earth did a wizard–most likely a pure-blood, given he was wearing Slytherin colours–know of one of Muggle Britain's most famous women suffragettes?

"I'm not laughing at that, though. I'm amused by the bit about a job. Didn't you hear me? I'm filthy, stinking rich!" he continued, wiping the tears of hilarity from his eyes. "I'll never have to work a day in my life. As for what I plan to do with said life-" He reached out and stroked across the back of her hand with a finger, his earlier humour replaced with a warm, daring suggestiveness. "I've enough learned skills and natural talent to get by. Care for a demonstration?"

Hermione sighed and rolled her eyes, recognising his game. She'd been teased similarly by Theodore Nott just last year. The boy had walked away from that experience with hair that had writhed on his head like snakes for three days, and not even Poppy had known the counter-curse (it had been old magic she'd discovered in a book on the subject in the library - a variation on the Medusa Hex). Needless to say, Nott had learned his place and he'd never tried to get fresh with her again. "Will you be serious?" she insisted, and moved her hand out of reach, placing it behind her back. It tingled where he'd touched her, and _not_ in a bad, creepy way. "You shouldn't drop-out. You can't get back these years if you waste them on frivolity. What you learn in school will last you a lifetime, while fun-" She touched the square-shaped outline of the Kretek box in his left-chest pocket with her other hand. "-is fleeting. It's a brief fling. Knowledge is forever."

He snickered. "Unless you end up with dementia at a ripe, old age - or you're hit with a Memory Charm." He tossed her a glance that let her know their thoughts were on the same wavelength in terms of her odd appearance on the train.

"Yes, there is that." She considered his implication. "Do you really think that's a possibility? A Memory Charm, I mean."

"Anything's possible with magic... or hadn't you heard?"

Hermione chuckled, amused by this anomalous, quick-witted young man. Despite (or perhaps because of) his unfortunate House affiliation, he reeled her in with an easy charm that was difficult to resist. "I don't even know you and I can tell you're the inveterate type," she pronounced.

"It's one of those innate talents I was speaking of earlier, luv." He threw her a saucy smirk and stepped closer, creating a bubble of intimacy around them. "Do you have any special skills? Anything you'd care to share?" His tone was a sultry, low murmur that danced across her skin as he moved into her private space, pressing them together. His body radiated heat and she was once more overwhelmed by the sugar-sweet scent of his cigarettes. Oddly, it enticed her.

Backing up to put some distance between them, to clear her head, she found her shoulders pressed into the cool, metal frame of the train car instead. Through the thin cotton of her shift, the chill pervaded, making her shiver.

Never in her life had she felt such a strong arousal for a boy. Viktor had been a gentle, quiet giant, never pressing her for any physical intimacy outside of dancing with him during the Yule Ball. Consequently, there had been no heat between them, only a warm fondness, similar to how Hermione felt about Harry or Neville or Fred and George. Ron... well, he was clueless, wasn't he? The discovery of her 'girly-ness' was a recent thing for him, but he was still oblivious as to seeing her as anything outside his friend and occasional study partner. The dangerously attractive wizard before her, however, clearly viewed her in a sexual manner. It was evident in the way his eyes glimmered as he looked upon her, and by his body language. He seemed as drawn to her as she was to him.

Was this what _real_ chemistry between two people felt like?

Licking her lips, she zeroed in on his, wondering what those full, pillowy lips would feel like...

Beckoned forward, the boy closed the distance between them again. This time, his thighs pressed in tight against hers, and his chest met the barrier of her unbound breasts through her spare covering. His hands pressed into the wall at either side, and he leaned in. "The baggage car is always cold," he informed her, clearly feeling her quivering against him, "but there are ways to warm up without spells, if you're game."

"I-It is a little c-cold," she replied. That wasn't the reason for her body's trembling though, and they both knew it.

Feet frozen in place and eyes firmly locked on the stranger's lowering mouth, Hermione's mind was a whirl of thoughts: Was any of this real, or was this all some bizarre imagination her mind had conjured to while away the time while she remained unconscious in the hospital? She hadn't remembered Disapparating to this place or taking a Portkey here, and there was absolutely no way she'd ever have gotten on a broom and flown here, either. So, how exactly had she ended up in the back of a steam locomotive's freight bogie, getting slightly jostled around by the uneven motion of the several-ton rolling machine under her feet, and about to snog a boy she didn't even know?

As the tip of his nose brushed her cheek, he paused. "How is this happening?" he whispered, staring at her through a half-lidded gaze. "Why can't I stop it?"

"I don't know," she whispered back, feeling that same strange compulsion for them to come together as well, "but I don't want you to."

Yes, this absolutely _had_ to all be in her head, because there was a complete lack of logic and rationality going on at the moment. For starters, she wasn't fighting him off; her sluggish limbs wouldn't have obeyed that command even if she'd thought to give it. Secondly, she found she didn't _want_ to fight him off. Her curiosity had, once more, gotten the better of her. Now she wanted to determine if this was, in fact, all make-believe in her head or not, and what better way to test it than to see how real it all felt. Third, she wanted to know what lips that smooth and plump would feel like.

When the kiss finally happened it was brief, but it definitely didn't feel like a drug-induced daydream kiss. It felt very solid and real. When he pulled away and she licked her bottom lip, she tasted liquorice and sweet cloves.

"Your first kiss?" he asked in a gentle whisper.

Hermione gave a small nod.

His answering smile was slow, wicked, and sexy. "I like that. I've never had a girl's first kiss before. Want another?"

Her gaze dropped to his mouth, and Merlin help her, she nodded again.

When he swooped back in, he slipped his warm tongue between her lips in a slick, quick move. Hermione jerked in response, stiffening up.

"Relax," he encouraged, pressing tiny nips and licks.

Deciding on the spot that, yes, this was definitely a lovely drug-induced delirium, as there was absolutely no way a young man this attractive would come on to her this strong in real life, Hermione decided to fling caution to the wind and enjoy it. How often did she have a naughty dream, anyway? Maybe once or twice a month over the last year, since she'd really started crushing bad on Ron...

Ron!

Putting a hand between them, she pushed against a solid, well-muscled chest. "Wait. Stop!"

Her fantasy boy did as she asked without pause. "What's wrong?"

She took a deep, shaky breath, trying to regain her rationality. "Look, you're very lovely for a dream, but–"

"A dream?" he interrupted, his brow lowering in confusion. "Is that what this is? Am I asleep back here in the car and dreaming you?" A chilled space opened between them as he stepped away from her, scratching again at his left forearm. "I've been having very vivid nightmares lately, yeah, but..." He truly seemed thrown by her words. "If this is a dream, it's the first nice one I've had in a long time."

Hermione felt her cheeks heat. "Yes, well, for me as well. Mostly, my dreams are topsy-turvy. I feel quite like Alice tumbling down the rabbit-hole right now, and it's most likely because of those blasted potions they're giving me for the pain."

Her companion moved back a step, then another, his expression suddenly wary. "That doesn't sound like something any dream girl of mine might say. Who are you? How did you get here? Why come to me now, when I needed this?"

"Needed what?" she asked, bewildered by the suspicion he now cast her way.

His eyes narrowed and the corner of his lips twisted into an ugly snarl. "Who the bloody hell are you? Are you spying on me?"

Hermione glanced around for the car's exit, confused and growing more frightened by the moment. What _had _she been doing? She was alone with a strange man who wore Slytherin colours, and was wandless and barely dressed – not a safe combination, to be sure. "Why on earth would I do that?" she reasoned, all the while seeking the door out. "I don't know who you are, and I don't know where I am, or even how I got here in the first place!"

All it took was a moment looking away, and when she glanced back, his wand was pointed at her. "Dumbledore sent you, didn't he? The nosy bastard!" His hand shook with one part anger, three parts fear. "Tell him my answer is still the same – I won't turn on my brother! I'll save him my own way! I don't need anyone else's help, and I definitely don't need the old codger to send me some pretty, little virginal witch to seduce me to his side, either."

Now her anger was sparked. Unfortunately, before she could open her mouth to respond, two things happened simultaneously: the train gave a vicious jolt, causing both Hermione and the strange wizard to stagger, and darkness crept in from the sides of her vision, moving fast to cut-off her consciousness. The best she could manage was a tiny cry of surprise as everything went dark again.

**~.~.~**

Hermione blinked.

**~.~.~**

The ceiling was completely unfamiliar. It wasn't the grey, worn stone of Gryffindor tower's dorms or the beige stone of its hospital wing, or the warm oak slats of the Burrow, or the pale blue of her own bedroom back at her parent's home in Surrey. It was perfectly flat from one end to the other, monotone white in colour, and dreadfully dull, lacking of any sort of a personality.

Stiff with pain, she slowly turned her head from side to side, hoping to find something about the rest of the room that might spark a memory. There was nothing untoward to be found in the shadows, and all was as quiet as a church during off-hours. The room was just as benign: four white walls with lemon-yellow trim, two chairs for visitors and a bedside table that was empty, a single window with drawn curtains, the pale light of dawn peeking through the cracks, a closed door to her left that she somehow knew led to a room with a comatose man, and another door to her right that led out into what appeared to be a hallway. She was in a bed with a soft pillow under her head, and starched, white sheets and a dark green blanket to keep her warm. The air smelled too clean, too, as if it had been well-sanitized.

A witch in lime-green robes walked by her open door, her head bent over a clipboard, and Hermione suddenly knew exactly where she was: St. Mungo's, where she'd been brought after the fiasco at the Ministry. She'd survived, although she recalled being badly injured in the fighting.

The events on the train had all been a potion-induced dream, then, just as she'd suspected.

"Oh," she whispered, disappointed. She'd really thought...

Slowly things came back to her, albeit as disjointed flashes of memory:

_The Department of Mysteries… tiny sand particles floating in the air and coating her tongue... Her blood so bright on the back of her pale, shaking hand... a purple flame burning through her... a Healer in lime-green robes bending over her, telling her everything it will be all right as a foul tasting potion is shoved down her throat... The enticing scent of liquorice and cloves... her toes feeling like prickly icicles... a kiss that makes her heart pound... _

_"Your first kiss? I like that. I've never had a girl's first kiss before."_

It had never happened. Her dream boy didn't exist and there had been no first kiss. He'd been nothing more than a hallucination brought on by a cocktail of pain and healing potions.

Hot tears slipped down the sides of her face, and suddenly she was sobbing as she hadn't since that first Halloween at Hogwarts, when she'd hidden out in the girl's loo. The ruckus brought a Healer running into her room from down the hall.

"Are you in pain, my dear?" the kindly witch asked.

Hermione nodded. She was in pain, but not from the memories of her terrifying ordeal at the Ministry, or because of the awful curse cast upon her, or even because she knew she'd be forced to take more potions to calm down in a moment. No, it was because of the hollow sensation she now felt in her chest, and the way her heart seemed only to partially function.

She hurt because she felt as if she'd left a piece of herself behind in the dream world, in the hands of an imaginary boy.

* * *

_**TO BE CONTINUED...**_

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

**Please review!**


	3. Chapter 3

**~.~.~.~.~.~**

_**19 September, 1996**_

_**Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland**_

**~.~.~.~.~.~**_**  
**_

The next time Hermione experienced an odd displacement was the night of her seventeenth birthday, a few months later.

Harry, Ron, and Ginny had thrown her a bash in Gryffindor's common room. With Dobby's help, there had been a huge cake and the pumpkin juice had freely flowed. Practically every one of her Housemates was in attendance. The pile of presents from her friends had been astounding.

"Well, you had a bad summer," Ron sheepishly stated when she'd cornered her three best friends and asked them why they'd gone to such lengths for her.

"And it's an important day, 'Mione," Harry pressed, elbowing Ron for his tactlessness. "You're an adult now, at least according to the Ministry."

Ginny nodded. "No more age restrictions on your magic. Lucky ducky!"

Hermione had been moved to tears. Her friends had pulled out all the stops to help her celebrate such an important milestone and to help make up for the fact that she'd spent the majority of the summer in a hospital bed, drinking foul tasting potions to get over Dolohov's Curse. "Thank you so much. It's the best birthday yet!"

They'd partied late into the night, but with classes the next day, eventually the fun was called to an end around midnight. After once again thanking her friends, she'd dragged her tired body and her haul of presents up the stairs to her dorm room. Setting her gifts away, and changing into her winter pyjamas, she'd climbed into her bed and set her wand to buzz her awake at her usual hour.

She'd been staring up at the red velvet canopy draped over her bed, listening to her roommates, Lavender, Susan, and Parvati talking in quiet whispers as they'd readied themselves for bed. The trio had snuck out earlier for a smoke, their newly acquired habit this year, and had just come back in stinking of sweet wizard's tobacco. It had reminded Hermione briefly of that cheeky Death Eater in the Department of Mysteries who had smelled of Kretek...

Without warning, the room went dark.

**~.~.~**

Hermione blinked.

**~.~.~**

The potions classroom was less cold than the train carriage had been, but it was still in the dungeon and therefore, by definition, chilly. It also smelled faintly of Baneberry and burnt Asphodel. Overriding the foul smell, however, was that same scent of liquorice and sweet cloves that she'd recognized from her first fugue.

"Well, at least the pyjamas are a step-up from the johnnies."

Before she turned to face him, she knew exactly who her mystery speaker would be. "You came back to school, I see," she pronounced with a touch of smugness as she spun on her heel.

There was a heavy, resigned sigh, and then, "Your influence over me in that respect is disconcerting, I'll admit, but your reason prevailed." He began winding his way towards her across the room with a lazy gait. He had his hands in his pockets and a jaunty smirk on his face. "I nearly froze my arse off on a broom to get back, but... I hope you're satisfied with the results."

"Very," she declared, crossing her arms over her unbound breasts, not wanting any sort of commentary this time about them. "Now, before we begin, let me just set something straight: I am no spy. No one sent me here, as far as I can tell. In fact, I wondered if _you're_ not somehow summoning me here with a charm or a magical item."

He shrugged. "Neither, as far as I'm aware, but you're here again, so I'll say, 'good show for me!' whatever I'm doing." He approached her cautiously, but didn't stop until they were nearly toe-to-toe. With an assessing gaze, he took her in from head to heel. His grin widened. "You do have a habit of not dressing for the occasion, luv."

"I was dressed properly for bed."

"At this time of the day?" he interrupted, frowning.

"Day? It's past midnight on a school night."

Her Slytherin companion tweaked an eyebrow at her in curiosity, and raised his right wrist, shaking an expensive looking timepiece out from under his high-quality cotton shirt sleeve, checking it. "No, it's twenty-five past twelve in the afternoon on a Saturday. You must have partied too much last night and slept in."

Hermione opened her mouth to retort that she couldn't have slept through all of Friday, regardless of the partying she'd done the night before, because someone would have come to find out why she'd skipped classes. However, her partner's stomach gave out a rousing growl just then, and the raucous sound momentarily shocked her. Her eyes dropped to his belly, just as he put a hand over it.

"Speaking of, it's time for lunch," he grinned, a slight blush tinting his cheeks. He absently scratched at his left forearm. "Care to sneak into the kitchens with me for a bite?"

His flippant cheek could really get on her nerves if she'd let it. "I don't have time for that! I need to find out how I got into the Potions Lab from my dormitory, and to determine why I've seemed to have lost a day!" She stared at the smooth, worn stone beneath her bare feet, attempting to concentrate on the facts at her command, but her head felt slightly woollen, as if she'd slept too long. "It doesn't make any sense! I don't recall taking any Sleeping Draughts, or falling and hitting my head. I remember lying in my bed, Lavender whispering to Parvati and Susan about boys, as usual. They'd smelled of cigarette smoke, and I was about to get up to reprimand them for breaking rules, but then... everything went dark." She ran a hand through her hair, pulling out a few knots. "Oh, this simply must be a dream! Either that, or magic is involved!"

So caught up in her attempts to turn-over information and postulate a few theories on her current circumstance, it came as a complete surprise to her when the young man's hands were quite suddenly on her waist. With an unexpected strength, he had her up in the air, and then her bum planted on a stool. He shoved her legs apart with a knee and settled his body between her thighs. With wide eyes, Hermione stared up in the handsome face of the young man she'd snogged during her last fantasy trip to Wonderland.

"What do you think you're–?" she began to demand, only to be cut off when his warm lips covered hers.

Merlin, could this boy kiss! His mouth was a playful tease, nibbling, licking, and stroking with a velvety expertise. He coaxed her to give in and give back, and to forget that anything outside of him and this kiss existed.

As his hands tightened upon her waist, his mouth moved over hers with both a barely-restrained hunger and a considerate gentleness at the same time. Thoughts fluttered from her mind, as the heat and taste and scent of him pervaded her senses, taking her over. With a whimper, she opened her mouth and touched her tongue to his. Her mystery boy groaned his approval, and her body melted into his. Against the centre of her femininity, through the cotton of her pyjamas and the wool of his slacks, she felt the iron-hard press of his flesh indicating the state of his arousal. "Mmmm," he growled around the kiss, his hands shifting, thrusting through her curly hair and holding on tight. "This is better than worrying, yeah?" he whispered as he delved in for more.

"I-It's madness," she stammered, gripping onto his shoulders for purchase. "This isn't going to solve anything!"

He kissed the arguments right from her mouth, one after another, until she was out of breath, trembling on the edge of sanity, and so hot and needy, she felt flushed.

"Please, we have to stop," she moaned, even as she accepted his tongue deep into her mouth, twining her own around it. Her fingers thrust into his hair and held onto the soft, short strands. It was impossible to push him away. Some force outside herself pulled her back for more and more, magnetizing her into his arms.

Her Slytherin dream-boy seemed as helpless as she to bring them to a halt. "Can't stop," he murmured around claiming her lips. "God, what are you doing to me? Why can't I stop?"

His mouth trailed a hot path over her jaw, and down her throat. He latched onto her pulse and Hermione's body jerked against his as electric current swarmed through her veins. "We... we don't even know each other!" she maintained. "This can't be real!"

Her partner quite suddenly paused and tore his mouth away. His hard, panting breath burned like fire against her cheeks as he pressed his forehead to hers. "You're right. This has to be a dream. I'm asleep at the bench, exhausted from working all night on this blasted potion that _he _wants me to make." His lashes fluttered, as if he were waking from a nightmare. "Yeah, this is a dream, because there's no way a pure and sweet girl like you really exists for someone like me." He slowly let her go, stepping back. His whole body trembled, as if he were both afraid and cold to the core, and he rubbed over his left forearm again, gripping it as if it were in pain. "Not anymore."

As if his words sapped the magic out of the room, darkness crept along the sides of Hermione's vision, quickly moving towards the centre.

"What's happening?" she asked, reaching out for him. "Wait!"

Everything went dark.

**~.~.~**

Hermione blinked.

**~.~.~**

Her wand was buzzing on the small side table next to her bed, warning her that it was six o'clock and time to rise and shine. Red velvet curtains loomed above her, draped over the four wooden posters like a banner.

She'd been right. Her mystery Slytherin _was_ just a dream. He was all in her head.

A wave of intense, overpowering sorrow inexplicably swept over her with a suddenness that stunned her. Her heart gave a funny hitch, and that hollow feeling returned in her chest, creating a dull ache behind her ribs. With a shaky hand, she wiped at her cheeks, staring at her wet fingertips in confusion.

Why was she crying, for Merlin's sake? Why did she have the desire to curl up into a ball in her bed and simply lay there all day long, moping and weepy? There was no logical reason for it. This wasn't like her at all!

She gave the matter a bit of thought, and remembered that her period was due to come this week. Perhaps her emotional overload was simply a case of PMS? It wouldn't be the first time she'd turned into a lunatic during that time of the month. Yes, surely pre-menstrual syndrome was amplifying her hormone levels, leading to an increase in her libido, hence the sexually-charged dream she'd just experienced. Her depression in the aftermath, after waking was easily explained as a consequence of stress from her intensified school load, Ron's continuing disinterest, and her personal sexual frustration. _That_ was a much more logical explanation than instantaneous teleportation without the aid of a magical or science fiction-y device.

Goodness, she felt silly for believing otherwise. After all, she'd been the one to tell Harry when he'd confronted her on his theory that Malfoy was a Death Eater at the start of term that when someone claimed to see a unicorn, nine times out of ten, it was just a horse wearing a funny hat. Such was the case with her fantastical Slytherin and her trip through the Wonderland of her dreams – they were imaginary, and didn't exist except in her own mind.

* * *

_**TO BE CONTINUED...**_


	4. Chapter 4

**~.~.~.~.~.~**

_**2 November, 1996**_

_**Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland**_

**~.~.~.~.~.~**_**  
**_

The night Ron and Lavender snogged for the first time in the Gryffindor common room after their Quidditch team won a match, Hermione experienced her third jump into the rabbit's hole.

It was November, and cold in the quiet area of the unused dormitory space in her House tower. Harry had just left her, at her request, after she'd cried her eyes out on his shoulder, and all was blissfully quiet, as she was alone on this level. As she sat on the bottom step of the stairwell, the feathered evidence of her jealousy-fuelled _Avis Oppugno_ spell still lying about the floor near her feet, she leaned her head in her hands and took a shuddering breath... and smelled burnt tobacco.

As she moved a foot she spotted the culprit: the butt of an old wizard's cigarette – probably one of Susan's, as she was the only one still smoking of her friends. Hermione magically vanished the crushed evidence with a wave of her wand, too heart-sore to confront anyone for rule infractions at the moment – especially after her own in sending that hex at Ron.

The scent of tobacco lingered, however, reminding her of her mystery Slytherin...

She leaned her head against the rotunda's wall.

**~.~.~**

Hermione blinked.

**~.~.~**

She was standing in the doorway of a dormitory room. A lone, burning candle provided the only light.

"You're back!"

A young man sat up from lying prone upon a bed decked out in dark green and black bed coverings. His face was shadowed, but his crisp, white dress shirt was a beacon in the darkness, especially as it hurriedly drew towards her. She knew the instant he stepped closer who he was by the fine cut of his clothing and as the unmistakable scent of liquorice and sweet cloves that assaulted her nose once more.

Turning his head to the left, her mystery Slytherin blew out a trail of cigarette smoke over his shoulder, dropped the butt onto the stone floor at his feet, and crushed it under his heel. Hermione watched the bright orange cinder fall and go out.

"I'm dreaming again," they both said at the same exact time.

"Right," he chuckled, "but saying we're not, how did you get in here this time? No outsider has ever come into Slytherin's common room or its dorms, or so the Bloody Baron contends."

Hermione glanced around. "I don't know! I certainly didn't walk down here. This _must_ be a dream – maybe one we're sharing by some unknown magical means, because nothing else makes sense! I was on the stairs just a second ago."

Her beau stepped closer as Hermione summoned a light spell to the end of her wand and held it up between them. Once more, she was rendered speechless by this young man's beauty. His eyes seemed to beckon her, and those lips! Godric, help her, but she couldn't help her eyes lingering on them and remembering how they'd felt.

"At least you're dressed in day clothing this time," he said, looking her up and down. "Strange, though. This is the third time you've come to me when I've thought of you and needed..." He trailed off, obviously hesitant to finish the sentence aloud, but it was clear that whatever he'd been about to admit bothered him. His frown was pronounced, and his brows lowered in consternation. He absently scratched at his left forearm, too.

"Needed what?"

Her question jarred him. By the way he glanced up at her, both with automatic suspicion and with a hungry desire, Hermione knew that someday her insatiable curiosity was going to get her into really, big trouble.

"A good shag," he pronounced, tossing her a rather naughty smirk.

Hermione huffed and rolled her eyes. This was the kind of crude stupidity she regularly dodged from Malfoy and his friends whenever Harry and Ron weren't around. Usually, however, it was followed up by some sort of unoriginal 'Mudblood' comment.

"Very mature. I'm not sleeping with you. I don't even know you. Be serious."

Before she could move to check him, he was in her face. "Oh, but I am, sweet girl. I'm as serious as an Unforgivable." His hot breath stroked across her cheek as he tilted his head to bring his mouth to her ear. "I need a soft touch right now. I'm on edge, you see." His hands caressed down the side of her body, following her curves. "And if this is all a dream, I don't see a problem with taking whatever I want now, as there will be no real world repercussions later."

Her heart tripling in speed, Hermione pushed against his chest. "Get off me," she growled. "Even if this is only in my head, I won't let you force yourself on me."

He didn't budge, but he didn't push for more either. His forehead rested against her temple as he let out a small sigh. "Just... tell me who you are," he requested in a strangely gentle tone. "After the train, I looked for you in every House here at school, but I couldn't find you. After our time in the lab, I asked everyone I knew about you, hoping someone would recognize your description. They all think I'm either mad or making you up. Am I?"

His body was so hard against hers, all strong muscle, despite his lean frame. He fit into her softer curves like lock and key, especially his thickening erection, as it pressed into her belly. The sensation made her knees tremble. The intoxicating scent of liquorice and sweet cloves clung to him, drawing her in. She reached out to grab his hips, holding on for purchase, and he groaned, sliding his arms about her waist to pull her in tight.

"Please tell me that even if I'm dreaming you, that you exist for real somewhere out in the world," he whispered the plea. "It's the only thing that's kept me from... I was going to kill myself. That day we met on the train, I was going to London, to the Leaky to Floo home, so I could die in my own bed after drinking poison. I thought it was the only way to escape my fate. Then, you showed up that night in your skimpy, little johnnies and we kissed, and... You changed my mind about everything. I couldn't go through with it, I came back to school. I had to find you after that. So, just tell me that you're real. I won't care if Dumbledore sent you. I just need to know!"

Heart trembling to maintain its distance, Hermione lowered her head, pressing her face into the cradle of his shoulder. "I'm real. No one sent me," she admitted. "I don't know how I got here or why. I just... am. I'm still not convinced that _I'm_ not dreaming _you _up somehow, though. You're here every time I've felt a little lonely, too, so that has to mean something, right?"

"Lonely. Yes, that's right," he agreed. "Whenever I've felt at my worst, like I'm drowning and holding my breath, you come, and I can breathe again for a little while."

She shuddered, his words resonating deeply within her. "It's the same for me."

"Sweet girl, what are you doing to me?" he whispered into her ear. He tilted her chin up with a finger, and captured her mouth in another searing kiss that curled her toes and had her fingernails scoring his waist through his shirt. Hesitant though she was at first to return his kiss, very quickly she felt consumed by it. His spicy scent pervaded her nose, his dark taste addicted her, and his touch felt curiously right. Again, she wondered what was happening and why? Why had she come back to this wizard's side, and why were they seemingly drawn to each other in this fashion?

Magic had to be responsible, as there was no other explanation. Either they were magically dreaming of each other, or she was being magically transported to wherever this boy was for an unknown reason, and compelled to want this sort of physical response with him. Nothing else made sense.

Before she could delve too deeply into her thoughts, with an easy pull, her partner lifted her in his arms. He turned them both, and headed towards his bed with a quick stride. The ride was a dizzying blur, especially with his mouth teasing hers to distraction.

"Definitely need you," he whispered around sensuous pulls of lips. "Need this."

When he lay her down on the soft bedspread and came over her, Hermione felt a slight panic, but her companion quelled it with another series of hot, soliciting kisses. His knees nudged her legs apart with firm intent, and his hips settled into the cradle of her thighs without resistance. There was no mistaking his arousal, as it came into contact with her core.

Every logical and smart protest in Hermione's head quite deserted her as her partner thoroughly set about seducing her senses. All that seemed to matter in the moment was what he was doing to her with his expert, bold touches and technique. Tricky fingers slipped under her jumper, skimming over her belly and ribs, and she found his palms to be warm, his hands as skilled as he'd previously bragged. Smoothing over the cups of her breasts, he thumbed her nipples through her bra, and swallowed the gasp that escaped her lips at such an unexpected touch.

She should stop this. It was going too far, too fast. She didn't even know his name, for Godric's sake!

He lightly rolled both nipples between his fingers while twining his tongue around hers, luring her further into his intended seduction. His pelvis ground against hers, and his hips moved in an instinctual rhythm that induced her to rub back, creating greater friction. They both revelled in the feeling, gasping and moaning around greedy, clashing lips and tongues. The pressure built in her lower body, expanding, persistent. There was a growing desperation to experience more of everything; it became a fever that clawed at her sanity, almost unbearable in its intensity and unable to be resisted.

Shifting the cotton of her bra aside, pinning it under the weight of her breasts, her would-be lover smoothed his hands and fingers over her naked skin, giving her the stimulation she longed for. Hermione's breath hitched as he lightly pinched the tiny, hard points, drawing them out from her body with gentle tugging. Her back arched and she cried out. The groan that escaped his throat and the increasing hardness rubbing against her jeans told her how very much he liked her reaction.

He teased her until she was near to madness, and then with great reluctance, he pulled his mouth from hers. "You've really never done this before?"

Barely, she had the mind to shake her head.

"Shit," he swore on a deep exhale. "I want you. I _really_ want you." His hands moved off her breasts and down her body, to grip her bare waist and he leaned back. "Just tell me to stop. Tell me right now, because so help me, sweet girl, if you don't, I'll fuck away your virginity tonight."

Now that there was a bit of room to breathe and think, Hermione's rationality returned. With wide eyes and panting breath, she pushed on his shoulders in a silent demand to be let up. "Oh, God," she hissed with shame. "Stop!" She dislodged his hands from her flesh and pushed him to his knees on the bed. "If... if this isn't a dream, then you've done something to me – a spell or a potion or something, because... I don't _do_ things like this!"

In the glow of the candle, his eyes lost their glaze of passion and the frown returned. "If I've used magic upon you, then whatever it is, I've done it to myself, too."

"Let me up this instant," she demanded, shoving against him again to make enough room for her to wiggle out from underneath his bigger body. "Let me go!"

He did as asked without hesitation, rolling off of her and sitting on the edge of the mattress, bracing his hands on his knees. He appeared as angry and confused as she was. Hermione practically jumped off the bed, only then realizing that her wand was on the floor near the door where she'd dropped it earlier. She hurried over to it, picking it up and instantly feeling the familiar strength of its bond to her. With magic back under her command, her courage plucked up as well. "Listen, I demand to know who you are, and what you know about me being here." She turned on him, pointing her wand in his direction. "Now, if you please."

_"Lumos,"_ her companion cast, summoning illumination from his wand. The brilliant flare of white-blue light lit up the space between them again. "I asked you first, if you'll recall," he pointed out in an icy tone.

She _tsk'd_, knowing she'd have to throw him some sort of a bone to get something in return. "Hermione. My name is Hermione. Now tone down the light, if you don't mind. You put too much into it and it's a bit blinding."

The ball of light was sent up towards the ceiling, far enough away for its brilliance to dim a bit and for her to meet his gaze without having to blink. The problem was, now that there was proper light to see by, everything was going dark again, especially around the edges of her vision.

"Oh no, not now!" she cried is despair, gripping the sides of her head. "Please, not yet!"

The darkness rushed in despite her protests.

The last glimpse she had of her wizard was his alarmed expression as he reached for her, as if he were desperate to grab hold of her and keep her with him...

**~.~.~**

Hermione blinked.

**~.~.~**

She was leaning against the stairwell in Gryffindor tower, back where she'd started. Had she fallen asleep on the stairs and dreamed the whole thing again? Yellow bird feathers blew past her trainers, to gather in the shadowy corners of the corridor, making a new home with the dust devils.

She felt as if she were going insane. These blackouts and hallucinations just _had_ to be some sort of unexpected side-effect of Dolohov's curse. After all, the dreams had begun only after she'd been hit with that evil Death Eater's spell.

What if that was it? What if all of this was part of the curse that nasty Death Eater had cast upon her?

Fighting off the familiar bout of depression, wiping the tears from her cheeks where they fell, she determined she was going to write to St. Mungo's tomorrow and ask them all they knew about the curse the Death Eater had cast upon her. Perhaps the answer would shed some light on her bizarre delusions.

* * *

**_TO BE CONTINUED..._**

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

**So, it seems our Hermione is have a series of trippy trips - and inside them, she has no control over her baser desires, especially when it comes to our mystery boy. Hmmm... wonder why _any_ of this is happening to her. Care to make a guess, dearest readers? **

**Please review! :)**


	5. Chapter 5

_****__******~.~.~.~.~.~**_

_**November, 1996 – June, 1997**_

_**Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland**_

**~.~.~.~.~.~**_**  
**_

After her third inexplicable incident and a return letter from St. Mungo's outlining Dolohov's Curse and its side-effects, Hermione began researching her affliction, assuming magic was involved. She spent months in between classes and prefect duties (and listening to Harry's increasingly paranoid ideas that Malfoy was up to no good) trying to find any possible explanation for her odd black-outs.

Unfortunately, she came up with nothing. The curse Dolohov had cast at her was a type of dark magic that solidified one's organs. Its effects lingered for weeks, but once it had run its course and dissipated, it was supposed to have no secondary consequences. Further, there was no potion and no known spell in any of the standard books that spoke of the type of Disapparition she was experiencing. The best she could manage were Muggle theoretical physic books on Space-Time and String Theories, but those were mere hypothetical possibilities mapped out by mathematics. Although they gave her a solid understanding of particle physics and how the universe was formed and moved, and how time operated within the multi-verse, they couldn't answer her most important questions, specifically what was causing the bizarre shifting about, how did the Slytherin boy fit into all of it, and how did she stop and get off the ride once and for all.

Faced with dead-ends in her academic research, she attempted a different tact: to find the one person in the world who shared her problem. If her Slytherin boy was indeed real, and not a dream, he should be around school, right?

She spent a week cataloguing every single boy in the snake's pit, especially the seventh years. Her mystery boy wasn't among them. He wasn't among any of the other Houses, either, when she looked there, too. He wasn't anywhere, as far as she could determine... which made her wonder if the stress of all that had happened to her this school year–being forced to watch Ron constantly snogging Lavender Brown, Katie Bell's attack, Ron's hospital visit, talking down Harry's increasing obsession with Malfoy–combined with her added school and Prefect duties, and with a growing anxiety over the inevitable war that she knew was coming was causing her to have a mental break.

Then, the truly bizarre happened: she'd begun to wonder if there wasn't something to the idea of precognition and Fate – concepts she'd always scoffed at before, but had been forced to entertain given Voldemort's obsession with Harry over the Prophecy that supposedly bound the two of them to kill each other.

On the one hand, the idea was laughable, as anyone with any sense in their heads knew Divination was a load of horse manure to start. On the other hand, it might explain her dreaming of a boy who didn't seem to be present and real.

Not that she considered herself a Seer, but what if her Slytherin love-interest had been a past lover, or if she were foretelling of his coming in the near future? It was true that determining past lives was nearly impossible as it was mostly based on a lot of feelings and impressions, and she'd never heard of one dreaming the future in such explicit detail, but as had been pointed out to her before: with magic, anything was possible.

Of course, there were holes in either theory she could have driven a truck through. For one, how could one prove reincarnation, especially when the 'experts on death' (a.k.a. the ghosts that haunted various places in the world, like Hogwarts) insisted that there was most likely no such thing, or they wouldn't exist in such a form at all, but would have moved on to their next life instead. As for pre-cognition, Seers never remembered what they predicted or where they went when they were in a predictive trance, and Hermione remembered every word, every smell, and every touch of each dream. She remembered it so much, in fact, that she almost felt hounded by it – by the memory of _him_, the boy who didn't exist.

In the end, she added it to the 'maybe-do more research' category on the chart she'd created to track the different avenues she'd considered.

Tragically, she never got that chance, as a month later, everything changed and there was no more time for interpreting realistic dreams or String Theory or fantasising about mystery Slytherins. Real ones had launched a lethal attack on Hogwarts, crippling the Order and throwing the wizarding world into chaos in a single blow: Malfoy had let Death Eaters into the school and Dumbledore had been murdered by Snape.

Harry had been right. His unicorn had _not _been a horse with a silly hat at all. It had been real.

* * *

_**TO BE CONTINUED...**_

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**Author's Note:**

**Please review!**


	6. Chapter 6

_******~.~.~.~.~.~**_

_**June, 1997**_

_**The White Tomb, on the shores of the Black Lake, Scotland**_

**~.~.~.~.~.~**_**  
**_

Hermione left Harry and Ron to talk about their next move, now that they'd all three committed to going off together to hunt down Horcruxes. She went to stand before the White Tomb, to pay her last respects in private to a man she'd held in the highest esteem.

She'd thought her sadness had worked its way through her already, as she'd had several nights alone in her dormitory to cry in the safety of her bed, hidden behind her red curtains, but the Merpeople's song and the Centaur's final good-bye during Albus' funerary service had moved her to tears. With a clean handkerchief, she dabbed at the corners of her eyes, as they flooded once more.

Earlier, Ron had been kind enough to lend her his shoulder, and for those brief moments, she'd contemplated whether the feelings that she'd held for him (which had slowly been fading over the last year) were really gone for good now. There had been a few weeks in March, after the hospital incident, that she'd thought– But no, they were done now, despite the fact he and Lavender had split up and he'd been cozying up for weeks. Besides, there was something about looking into Ron's blue eyes that made her cringe with guilt now, for she was constantly comparing them to another pair – ones as light as the pale blue hydrangea in her mother's back garden...

She stepped around the tomb, heading for the small strip of beach dividing the Black Lake from the line of grass. She stopped just shy of the water's reach. "Thank you for your song," she offered to the Merpeople, though she knew they were long gone. Their lament had been a lovely tribute.

From further down the shoreline, Hermione spied that irritating bug, Rita Skeeter, slithering up to Scrimgeour, magic quill and parchment on stand-by. The evil, rotten witch just couldn't waste an opportunity to pounce on any unsuspecting victim to sniff out a story, could she? Disgusted the woman had the audacity to even show her face at Dumbledore's funeral, Hermione sauntered closer towards the forest, wanting to escape Skeeter's presence.

She neared a spot where the trees were actually half-on the beach, their roots exposed to the continual lapping waves of the lake. On just the other side of them was an elevated grassy patch, which allowed for one to sit and dangle their legs over the edge and to let their toes trail in the chilly lake. Tucking her dress up underneath her legs, Hermione seated herself in the middle of that grassy plot of land, and looked out over the dark waters of the loch. This might be the last chance she had to visit this place, so she took the moment to tilt her face towards the sky and to absorb the scents and sounds around her, absorbing the memory of her second home.

The sweet scent of wizarding tobacco carried on the breeze to her from somewhere upwind. Looking about, Hermione caught a glimpse of Skeeter, further up the beach, puffing away on a fag, talking to her camera man. Every few seconds, the woman took a heavy drag, and then blew out a perfect cone-shaped exhale through her mouth. It was carried downwind... directly into Hermione's path.

The scent of liquorice and cloves tainted the air, reminding Hermione of her mystery Slytherin boy. She shut her eyes, trying to will away the inevitable melancholy that cropped up anytime she so much as considered the handsome, young man of her dreams, but that sadness coupled with her mourning for Dumbledore and cracked open the fissure in her heart once more...

**~.~.~.~**_**  
**_

Hermione blinked.

**~.~.~.~**

The shores of the Black Lake were the same, but the air was different. It was chillier, with a spring's gentle wind blowing her hair about.

"I knew it."

A puff of an all-too-familiar wizard's cigarette drifted past her on the light breeze. The lake carried it away over its churning surface as the night's cooler temperature met the day's lingering heat and twilight fell.

"I was thinking of you, needed you, and you showed up again, even though it's been months since the last time."

Hermione turned, finding the object of her year-long torment sitting on a rough-faced glacial boulder, one knee cockily bent upwards while he crushed out his ciggie against the stone surface and magicked the butt away with his wand.

Again, she found herself asking: was this real?

No, it couldn't be. It had been early afternoon just a moment ago, and she'd been sitting on that grassy knoll, trying to ignore how the scent of Rita Skeeter's cigarette was making her dizzy. Standing on shaky knees, she brushed beige and grey sand from the folds of her black, cotton dress. "You... whoever you are... I'll ask you again: are you magically summoning me here?" Her mind reeled, trying to make connections where there weren't any obvious ones to be found.

Her Slytherin boy shrugged, scratching at his left forearm. "Don't know how, but seems it."

As the last rays of the setting sun touched upon his handsome features, Hermione's heartbeat accelerated. Gods, he was so beautiful... and sad, like her. Salty tracks trailed down his cheeks; he didn't brush them away or try to hide them. In fact, from the set of his posture to the etched lines in his face, Hermione sensed that he was a man resigned to some unwanted fate.

"Are you doing it in dreams or some other way, and why?" she pressed.

He didn't say anything for a long while as he stared out over the lake. The sun fell below the horizon, and then night's blanket embraced them. The moon was already up and nearly half-full, allowing her to see him through rays of silvery light.

"I've been thinking long and hard about us since the last time I saw you," he admitted finally, "and I think the reason you keep showing up is that you're meant to help me."

She didn't like the sound of that. That sounded too much like what Dumbledore had said to her once about Harry.

"Help you to do what exactly?"

He hopped off the boulder and approached, hands in his pockets again. "Make a decision."

When they were a breath away, he reached out and touched her cheek with a very light brush of his fingertips. Hermione didn't flinch; in fact, she felt an odd longing for him to close the gap between them and bring them together, body to body. His gaze moved across her features, highlighted by the rising half-moon. "You're really very pretty. I'm weak for big, brown eyes, curls, and a dash of freckles," he said, his tone gentle. He stroked down a lock of her hair. "You're the perfect girl to tempt me. I wonder if I didn't conjure you after all." His attention cut from her lips to her eyes. "You still a virgin?"

"Yes," she whispered, not wanting to disturb the hush that had already settled across the sleepy Scottish landscape.

Wait, why had she told him that?

_Focus, Hermione._

"What sort of decision?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he leaned forward and kissed her again, and although it was brief, it was also tender and soft. "You always taste so warm and sweet," he murmured, his lips stroking over hers. "Like sunshine."

"You're liquorice and sweet cloves, like your cigarettes," she told him around small kisses. "It's nice."

_What are you doing? Stop this, before-_

His arms came around her and he rubbed his cheek against her temple, and there was simply no desire to fight what felt so good and right. "What's your name?" she asked, her heart beating like mad in her mouth.

He paused a moment, as if trying to decide whether to answer her question or not. "Ral," he finally told her, with a hint of a French accent on the name. "Are you Muggle-born?"

The unexpected question threw her for a loop. "Why should that matter?"

He gave a resigned huff. "You are, aren't you? It's ironic, is all. I looked up 'Hermione'. It's not a witch's name, but Muggle," he explained. "And this is twice now I've seen you in Muggle day clothing, too. I figured I had a fifty-fifty chance on your blood purity, but somehow, I just knew you weren't half-blood." He sighed. "I think our meeting like this must have been fated. Nothing else makes sense."

Manoeuvering from his embrace, she held him at arm's length. "I don't understand. What's ironic about me being Muggle-born? What does my magical heritage have to do with whatever this decision is that you have to make?" The words were hardly out of her mouth when the answer clubbed her over the head. Her eyes dropped to the forearm Ral had been scratching during their previous meetings. His left forearm – the one Hermione now knew from Harry's speculation was the preferred location for the Dark Mark. Knees, hands, and heart trembling, she stepped away from Ral. "You're... you're one of _them_, aren't you - a Death Eater!"

Ral watched her reaction through a flat, serpent's gaze. "Can I assume from your reaction that you're one of Potter's friends, in that little secret Order of his?"

Hermione's chin came up. "Yes, I am, and proud of it."

Ral looked off into the distance, giving a cynical huff. "I'll just bet. Everyone loves Four-Eyes and his merry band of miscreants."

"How dare you," she hissed. "We're not the ones out murdering innocent people! How can you do this? How can you possibly think of serving... You-Know-Who? He's a genocidal lunatic!"

Her companion chuckled. "I wouldn't say that to his face if I were you."

"Do you honestly believe in that rubbish he preaches?" she dared to ask. "After what we've... done together... do you really consider me inferior and a magical blight? Could you really kill people like me if he ordered you to?"

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. "I think that's what you're here to help me decide."

She scoffed. "Why would you even need to think about it? He preaches murder, enslavement, torture, and twists beautiful magic into something black and horrible. His philosophy is evil. His methods are evil. His _soul_ is evil."

"I know all that."

"Then why are you even contemplating the situation?"

He turned to stare at her head-on. "I'm not. I agree with you completely. I'm contemplating whether I should take an offer Dumbledore made me months ago."

"What offer?"

The pause he let stand between them was a long one, but Hermione refused to give him the opportunity to dodge her question by looking away. She stared him down, planting an unspoken challenge in her gaze, and waited for him to answer.

Ral let out a deep, heavy sigh. "To turn spy for your precious Order of the Phoenix."

Hermione's heart thumped hard under her ribs. "You'd do that?" Disbelief suddenly warred with her idealism. Ral was a Slytherin, after all. "What would you want in return?"

His lids lowered, and his gaze grew heavy. "Isn't it obvious by now? I want you."

"Me?" To say she was shocked by his candid pronouncement was the understatement of the year. "You'd want _me_ as payment for turning traitor?" The idea was completely galling... and strangely, a bit flattering. "Why?"

"Why, indeed," he asked, sounding as bewildered as she was. "Your innocence is tempting, I'll admit, but it's more than that. It's-" He shook his head, frowned, and seemed to struggle with the right words to say. "I feel like I knew you before you ever appeared on the train last year. Like we exist somewhere together, and that you're mine, but it's not here. Shit, I can't explain it right!" His hand clutched his shirt over the area of his heart. "All I know is I'm hollow when you leave me. You always disappear between one blink and the next, and you rip my heart out every fucking time."

Yes, that's how it felt for her, too - more so this last time.

Immediately upon waking up from her previous episode, she had felt strangely bereft, heartbroken, and confused. She'd kept her friends at an emotional distance for days as she'd tried to puzzle it all out, acting as a woman in mourning might. When confronted on her odd behaviour by first Professor McGonagall and later by Harry, she had passed it off as a combination of monthly hormones and heavy stress, her favourite excuse this last year. The little, white lie had worked its magic once more, especially when her best friend had passed on the warning to their core group of friends to give her some space.

It had taken almost a full week to pass through the stages of her grief and to put her hurt away, rationalizing her ridiculous crush and putting it in its proper perspective. Much as one might pine for a movie star they fancied, she'd figured so was it between her and her dream wizard: impossible, silly, and imaginary.

This newest dream jaunt had brought it all back, though. Her feelings for Ral returned full-force as she stood before him now, and they blindsided her with their strength.

"It's the same for me," she admitted.

Her words cause the moment to irrevocably shift and snap; Ral approached her with a confrontational gait, grabbed her arms in a fierce grip, and shook her once. His face was a mask of confusion and pain and wariness. "Who are you to me? Why does my body want you when you're near? Why do I hurt when I look at you? What have you done to me?"

Tears swam in Hermione's vision as he put to her every question she'd wanted to ask him from the beginning. "I don't know! I DON'T!" she yelled back. "I think it's you, not me! I think you're responsible!" She pushed against him and demanded back, "Let me go! Whatever you're doing to me, just let me go!"

"I can't," he snarled in her face. "I fucking can't! Not again!" He slammed his mouth down on hers, kissing her with a determined hunger. She tried to deny what was happening between them by turning her head, but Ral fisted a hunk of her hair and held her still. "Don't turn away from me again. Stay with me. _Please!_" He was begging, shaking from head to toe, the same as she was. He seemed as equally torn up by this strange connection between them, unable to fathom it or to deny it.

A sob was ripped from Hermione's chest as his face was swiftly engulfed in shadow. "Oh, God, I'm going again and I can't stop it! I'm sorry. Just please, _please_ don't serve Voldemort!"

"Hermione, don't go!" Ral demanded, gripping her arms harder, pulling her against him. "Stay with me!"

**~.~.~.~**_**  
**_

Hermione blinked.

**~.~.~.~**

She was exactly where she'd been prior to her strange fugue: sitting on a grassy patch near the Black Lake. The sun in the sky told her it was still early afternoon. She looked down the beach to where Skeeter had been smoking... The woman was gone. Instead, Harry and Ron were making their way over to her, their faces determined, grim.

Hermione covered her face with her hands as the familiar ache of Ral's loss overwhelmed her once more. Fortunately, her friends believed her grief to be for Dumbledore, encompassing her fear about the unknown future. She didn't bother to correct their misunderstanding.

* * *

**TO BE CONTINUED...**

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**Author's Note:**

**Ral, huh? Now, dear readers, where have we heard that name before? :)**

**A secret offer from Dumbledore, the man Hermione has just buried... Wonder if 'Ral' will be joining Hermione's little crusade soon. What do you think?**

**Please review!**


	7. Chapter 7

**~.~.~.~.~.~**

_**July, 1997**_

_**The Granger Home, Lingfield, Surrey**_

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**_

The next pass into unconsciousness came the night Hermione had been made to cast a Memory Charm on her parents.

After she set Monica and Wendell Wilkins' packed bags by the door and placed the one-way tickets she'd purchased to Australia in her mum's purse, she'd said her good-byes from a distance, not willing to get any closer to them to avoid leaving any trace of herself (her scent or her magical resonance) on their person. She'd whispered her wishes for a good, long life to them, told them she'd always love them while holding back tears, and then she'd walked out the front door, locking it behind and leaving their unconscious forms on the sofa.

As she walked to the Lingfield railway station now, careful to stay out from under the street lamps and sticking to the shadows, Hermione tried to keep up a brave face to avoid from calling any unwanted attention should anyone pass her by. Crippling regret and a deep, lonely ache burrowed into her soul, and with every step away from her home that she took, she felt more and more like one of those panicked, lost children in a department store, worried of being completely abandoned by her parents and stricken with the knowledge that she would be forever alone.

She was now utterly without family in the world. Her parents would be alive, yes, but they would not remember her as being theirs. The False Memory Charm she'd used wasn't an Obliviation spell – it didn't permanently erase memories. Instead, it simply stored new ones on top of old ones, covering up the old memories and replacing them with the false memories. It was reversible, thank heavens, but the problem with it was the longer it was allowed to stay in place, the more irate and confused the victim would be later when the false memories were removed and they were faced with the fact that what they'd believed so strongly was all a lie. As she had no way of knowing how long the war would drag on, Hermione wondered if it wouldn't just be kinder to her parents when the war ended to leave the charm in place and to never see them again. Perhaps the life they would lead as 'Monica' and 'Wendell' would be a better, happier one than the one they had lead as Helen and Richard Granger.

The sadness that thought conjured overwhelmed her, and by the time she'd made it to the station, she'd had to walk around the side of the brick building to hide her tears. The scent of cigarette smoke was strong here, and she noted a small stainless steel receptacle placed to the side that was filled with sand and crushed fags. The tobacco scent reminded her a bit of Ral, and how their last episode had ended.

He was real, wasn't he? She wasn't going insane, was she? This last time she hadn't woken up in a bed or sleeping against the wall in a stairwell. Instead, she'd been awake, sitting in the same position, never having moved from her spot on the grass, so that had to mean he wasn't a product of dreams, didn't it?

If it had been real, then Ral was a Death Eater – a soldier in Voldemort's army. A man who'd vowed to wipe her and her family off the face of the Earth. He was her sworn enemy.

_That _awful truth made her cry even harder.

As she hugged her arms around her middle to hold back the worst of her sobs, she suddenly felt rather dizzy. Leaning against the brick, she wiped a hand across her eyes.

**~.~.~**

Hermione blinked.

**~.~.~**

The familiar statues of winged boars situated atop two columns to either side of a tall, wrought-iron gate sent her into 'panic mode'. How in the name of Merlin's white beard had she gotten outside the Main Entrance of Hogwarts?

"Shit, it worked!"

She turned about, recognising the voice behind her. "Ral? What did you do?" she asked, wiping the tears from her cheeks with a shaky hand.

Before she could understand his intent and dodge it, Ral had her up in his arms and was spinning her around, whooping in triumph. Hermione clung to his strong shoulders and dropped her face into the cradle of his throat, closing her eyes tight against the dizzying blurring of the landscape. His skin and clothing smelled of his habitual liquorice and sweet cloves.

"Stop," she commanded him. "Please, put me down."

Immediately, the twirling ended, and she was set on her feet. Ral continued to hold her to him, however, hugging her with great enthusiasm. "I woke up from a sound sleep in my bed at home tonight after dreaming about us meeting out here, Hermione. I just knew I was supposed to come, no matter that it's the middle of the night. I got dressed, and Disapparated from my home in Corsham. I've been hanging around waiting for you to show – just finished a clove in fact." He let out a deep, contented sigh. "It's just like I dreamed. You're with me again."

His summer coat was scratchy against her cheek, but he was warm against the chilly night air. "I was at a Muggle train station in Surrey. I don't understand this at all. I'm not Disapparating or Porting over. There's no feeling of being squeezed, no crack of thunder. I blink, and suddenly I'm transported over five-hundred miles away." She shivered with a strange dread. "How is this possible? It defies every law of magic and Muggle science."

Ral tenderly ran his fingers through her long hair, careful not to get his fingers snagged. "I don't care how it happened. You're with me again. That's all I need to get through this."

"What do you mean?" she asked, her sixth sense tingling. Leaning back, she met his eye. "What's going on?"

His smiled dropped away.

"Tell me," she gently prompted.

It took Ral two stops and starts before the truth came out. "Two nights ago, my father was killed by a member of your Order."

Hermione went stone still, shocked by the news.

"That's why I was home. I've been helping Mother arrange things." Ral nervously ran his hands up and down her arms, as if assuring himself she was really there with him in that moment. "They said someone named Longbottom killed him. They're talking revenge, and they all expect my brother and me to carry it out."

"Longbottom? As in Neville?" True, she hadn't kept tabs on all of the Order members since Dumbledore's funeral the month before, but surely she would have heard something through the grapevine about _Neville_ killing, wouldn't she? Or maybe it had been his grandmother instead? The woman was known to have a wicked temper and a fast wand, despite her advanced age and poor eyesight. "Wait, who's 'all'?"

When Ral didn't explain further, Hermione instinctively knew what he wasn't saying.

"You haven't taken the deal yet, have you?"

He let her go, stepping back and wiping at his eyes. "No, I haven't taken the bloody deal, Hermione," he said, glowering at her.

"Why not?" she demanded.

His hands visibly shook as he pushed his bangs off his face. His hair was longer than when they'd first met, and needed a cut. "I'm not sure I can. It's not as easy a situation as you think."

She threw her hands into the air. "Why are you at all conflicted? You admitted you didn't share You-Know-Who's world view, and that he's evil. It's obviously in your best interests to leave him. So, what's keeping you from saying 'yes' to the deal, Ral? Why are you holding back?" As he wavered in giving a response, Hermione attempted a softer approach to coax the answers from him. "Please help me to understand why we can't be together."

Some of the tension left him and he seemed to open up, encouraged by her willingness to listen to his side. Taking her hands, he drew her close and finally shared his secrets with her.

"It's my big brother," he admitted, for the first time being completely forthright. "There's six years between Rolph and me, but we were close growing up. He'd always watch over me, keep others from bullying me, and he stood up for me when no one else would. For years and years, I looked up to him, Hermione. When I got into Hogwarts, though, he was in his seventh year and already mixed-up with the Death Eaters. He took the Mark the night of his graduation. I was there, watched what he'd become after that and... well, we drifted apart."

He dropped one of her hands and rubbed the back of his neck. "But here's the thing: Rolph needs me now. See, he's all brawn, little brains. There's no forethought in his decisions, and he has absolutely no will to say 'no' when it comes to trouble. He's a blind follower."

"If he's chosen his path, then why–?" Hermione began to argue. Ral held a hand up, signalling she should wait and let him finish before asking him questions. She gave him the benefit of the doubt and shut her mouth, listening to his tale.

"My brother has really only been blessed with three merits in this life: his brute strength, being the eldest son and therefore entitled to our family's vast fortune, and a dogged allegiance to upholding tradition, specifically, devotion to his family. I love Rolph, but if I was to be totally honest, he's the product of my father's narrow-minded brainwashing and my mother's viciousness. He never really had a chance to say 'no' to their legacy, and he's just not smart enough to realise that following their example is digging his grave. I joined the D.E. for him – to interject a little sanity and influence… to try to keep him alive. Now that my father's dead-" his voice snagged on the word, "-Rolph's wife will certainly take the place of the authority figure in his life. I know her – can't stand the woman, honestly. She whispers like a spider in your ear, poisoning you. Rolph's completely devoted to her, mostly because he's easily led around by his meat. Without Father to interject and overrule her, I don't think my brother will make it out of this war alive – unless I'm there to take up my father's vacant place in Rolph's life."

Hermione placed a hand on his shoulder to steady him, as he seemed on the verge of an emotional meltdown. "I think it's a very brave and honourable thing you're doing, Ral, but your brother is a grown man. You can't be responsible for saving him from himself. If he chooses to do evil and gets punished or killed for it, that's not your fault – nor is it your burden to carry. It's like I keep telling my best friend, Harry: you can't save everyone. All you can do in this world is to try to do the right thing."

Ral shook his head. Clearly, his sibling's poor choices and how they affected their entwined future was a frustrating conundrum for him. "Rolph's the one who taught me how to ride a broom and to skip rocks. He used to read me to sleep when I was little, and he took beatings from the other kids for me when we were children. My father was rarely around when I was growing up, and when he was, there were never any kind words or encouraging gestures from him. My mother was an affectionless Ice Queen, who cared only about status and power. Rolph was the only one who showed me any love or affection. He was my best friend – my only friend, until Hogwarts." Tears streamed freely down his ruddy cheeks as he warred with himself over the issue. "Hermione, he was there for me when I was afraid and needed someone to be good to me. Even though he's changed, I want to be here for him in the same way now." He reached up and took her hand from him, entwining their fingers. "So, what if the right thing for me to do now is to stay where I am, and to try to convince Rolph to switch sides with me? What if that's my path?"

Hermione stared at this lonely, good man and felt her heart break for him. His loyalty to his brother was commendable. She also feared it would spell his doom.

She turned his hand over, popped the button on his cuff, and slowly raised the sleeve of his dress shirt to bare his Dark Mark to her sight. Even in the semi-darkness, with only the moon to light the world around them, the Mark stood out as a stark, bleak tattoo against the backdrop of his pale flesh.

"Don't touch it," he gently warned her.

Her throat tightened at the sight of the sinister-looking tattoo. He'd taken the Mark not for himself, but for his brother. "I've heard that once you get the Mark, it's forever."

He sniffed in sad amusement. "The things you do for love, yeah?"

Tears wavered in Hermione's vision. "Oh, Ral." The lengths he'd gone through to protect Rolph were extreme, yes, but then she considered the lengths _she'd_ gone through to protect her parents – namely, she'd broken wizarding law in casting a Memory Charm on them, and that was punishable by imprisonment, too. It was for that reason she couldn't condemn Ral for not wanting to immediately abandon his place in Voldemort's army. He _was_ doing what he believed was the right thing.

"What would it take to convince you to accept the offer and join me in the Order?" she asked, hot tears dripping down her cheeks.

Ral dropped her hand as if burned, and quickly rolled his shirt sleeve back down over the Mark, covering it up once more. "After everything I've said, you still want to negotiate my turning traitor against my brother?" He sounded angry and disappointed.

"No, not that," she explained. "I understand what he means to you now, and what you're trying to accomplish. What I'm asking is: what do you need from me to get out from under You-Know-Who's thumb _with_ Rolph."

Ral looked like a man daring to hope again. "You would do that for me? Why?"

Reaching up, she brushed his dark bangs to the side. "You said I was drawn to you for a reason. Maybe this is it."

He took her in his arms once more. "Any plan you think will work, I'll follow. You help me save Rolph, and I'll be your spy."

Sliding her arms around his neck, Hermione reached up on tiptoe, stretching her face towards his in a silent plea for a kiss. She felt brazen, daring just then. "Is that all you want?"

His eyes rounded with astonishment. "You never cease to surprise me, my sweet girl," he murmured, smirking. Lowering his mouth, he slid his bottom lip against hers. "What would you say to me demanding you as part of the bargain?"

Hermione stared into the heart of him as she sealed her fate. "I'd accept your terms."

"Promise?" he whispered, while sipping from her lips with small kisses.

"Yes."

"Good." He dragged her to her knees with him, and laid her back into the soft, green grass just to the side of the main path, under the shadow of the great wall. There, against the refuge of the stone, his body blanketed hers, their curves and angles matching in a perfect fit. Capturing Hermione's mouth, Ral hypnotized her senses with drugging kisses. With gentle fingers, he explored the texture of her hair, followed the pulse in her throat, and traced the shape of her features. Each caress was electric, inciting a hum that travelled the length of her spine, rousing her whole body with pleasurable, little shivers... and making her ache for more.

"Touch me here," she begged him, gripping his hand and directing it under the hem of her shirt. "Please."

Proceeding with soothing strokes over her abdomen, Ral slowly worked his way up her body until his hand cupped her breast. Hermione arched into his warm palm with an unrestrained moan of delight.

"Not that I'm complaining, but how is it possible no one else has discovered your beauty yet?" he asked, speaking low. He circled her nipple through her bra, pinching and rolling the tightening bud between his thumb and forefinger, watching her as he easily manipulated her body.

Hermione's breath hitched. "No one else sees me like you do," she admitted, feeling her cheeks pink from embarrassment. "I... I don't mean to sound self-pitying. That's not... What I mean is, well, I'm 'the study partner', not 'the Friday night date'. And honestly, I'm perfectly fine with that scenario. I'm not very comfortable with being touched, except by my parents and my best friends. And you."

He chuckled, and bent to kiss her lips again. "I'd say I'm rather lucky, then."

"Is this luck or is there really such a thing as fate?" she wondered aloud, feathering her fingers through Ral's soft hair and tipped her mouth higher for him to take and ravish.

**~.~.~**

Hermione blinked.

**~.~.~**

She was crouched against the brick wall of the Lingfield Train Station. Behind her, the sound of a train pulling out was a loud rumble.

"Ral," she whispered as tears leaked down her cheeks and she fought against the violent wave of depression that swamped over her emotions as she lost him again. She bowed her head, ran her fingers through her hair and tugged. "Oh, Merlin, I am going insane!"

The voice over the intercom calling the next train's arrival cut through her despair, and it struck her then that she was wasting precious time sitting here when she should be on the move. If the enemy discovered that Lingfield was her hometown, they would come here and take her prisoner, most likely kill everything in sight until their blood thirst was quenched, all to lure Harry out into the open. She couldn't afford to spend even a precious few minutes feeling sorry for herself.

Solidifying her resolve to do this one thing to protect those she loved, Hermione stood on shaky knees, wiped the tears from her face, and reached into her enchanted beaded bag for her Muggle wallet. Money in hand, she bought a ticket and left Surrey as quickly as possible, taking one of the late trains to Barnstaple – a nine and a half-hour ride away, which would get her close enough to Ottery St. Catchpole and The Burrow, where she, Ron, and Harry had planned to stay for Bill's wedding.

Whether Ral (if he was real at all) took the deal Dumbledore had offered him before his death remained to be seen. Hermione could only hope he would. Should she alert the other Order members to be on the look-out for his note, however, just in case?

She debated the issue in her head for hours as the train rolled across the countryside, stopping here and there at various stations where she had to get off and make changes to get to her final destination. In the end, she'd decided that she would keep all information about Ral to herself. Alarming Molly or Arthur to some strange, possibly imagined magical connection to a Death Eater would only have her put under house lock-down by Remus or Moody, and i_that/i _would jeopardize her secret mission to hunt down Horcruxes with her two best friends after the wedding – something she absolutely couldn't chance. She wouldn't risk sending Harry and Ron off alone on such a dangerous quest, because Merlin knew what sort of trouble her two boys would get into without her there to pull them out of the fire.

For the time being, Ral would remain her secret.

* * *

**_TO BE CONTINUED..._**

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

**Hermione's getting in deeper with Ral with each passing visit. Will she be able to help him escape his fate as a Death Eater, or will she be forced to face-off against him in the war? **

**Please review!**


	8. Chapter 8

**~.~.~.~.~.~**

_**November, 1997**_

_**Duddon Valley, Cumbria**_

**.~.~.~.~.~**_**  
**_

As Hermione lay in her bunk, remembering how just the year before, around this same time, Ron had stepped all over her feelings by snogging Lavender Brown in their common room in front of everyone made her wish for such simpler times and for such childish problems. Now they were in the middle of the war, constantly hunted by an army of clever and powerful magic users, with no clue as to where to go to find the next Horcrux or even how to destroy the one they had managed to capture.

And Ron had left them twelve days ago. It didn't look like he was coming back, either.

Hermione dealt with that betrayal with tears of anger and frustration in her bunk every night and with a weary silence during each day. She'd really thought that she and Ron had made great progress in repairing their strained friendship back at Grimmauld Place for the month they'd stayed there in August. He'd opened up to her in a way he never had before, admitting to things like his fears for Harry, for her, and for disappointing his family by failing when just the two of them were in the room together, or late at night when Harry was already asleep. He'd even held her hand the first night they'd bunked down at Grimmauld, seeking her comforting touch to reassure him that everything between them as friends hadn't been irrevocably damaged by his pursuit of Lavender last year. Things between them had finally begun to go back to 'normal'.

The locket Horcrux had ruined all of that, playing upon his weaknesses, stirring up his jealousy. It had driven him to abandon them when they'd needed him the most.

For the first five days of Ron's absence, Hermione had resented him for it – that, despite the fact that she knew it wasn't really his fault, but the responsibility of the dark magic that was toying with his mind. She'd finally been able to let it go on the sixth day, when she and Harry had decided to move camp, realizing that the reason the Horcrux had been able to take advantage of Ron wasn't because he was a bad man, but because he was a very good man. Wearing your heart upon your sleeve was a Weasley trait, after all.

True, Ron's abandonment hurt, but that was not to reason for her tears anymore. Now, there was a more insidious kind of hurt brewing; the kind that had the potential to definitively shift the course of the war into Voldemort's favour if she gave into it: Slytherin's locket was whispering things in her ear that she had never wanted to consider – things about Harry.

The beautifully, hand-crafted piece of jewellery holding a piece of Voldemort's evil, twisted soul within it was telling her that her best friend wanted her in a sexual manner. Every time it touched her skin, it spoke of his lust for her, and it reminded her that she was alone with Harry, that no one would hear her screams if Harry decided to take what he wanted. It tried to make her want to abandon her friend out of fear, or worse, kill him before he could rape her in her sleep.

She suspected the locket was saying similarly awful things to Harry, too, for each time he so much as glanced in her direction she caught the speculation in his green gaze. Was it coaxing him to rape her, or murder her in her sleep before she could murder him?

Hating the horcux with her very soul, she longed to toss it away into the bush and urge Harry to Disapparate with her somewhere far away from it, but she knew that to do so would be playing right into Voldemort's hands. So, she blocked her ears, and thought of other things–defensive and offensive spell combinations, potions ingredients, listing every known Magical Creature on the planet in alphabetical order, and Ral's sweet kisses and warm touches–to shut the voice out when the locket lay upon her breast.

Tonight, Harry had it, and from across the tent, she listened as he tossed and turned in his cot, moaning as it tampered with his dreams.

She'd never felt so alone in the whole of her life...

"Ral," she whispered into her pillow. "I need you so much. Please."

The phantom, remembered scent of liquorice and sweet cloves tickled her nose. She inhaled, feeling a queer lightness to her heart at just the imagined fragrance.

**~.~.~**

Hermione blinked.

**~.~.~**

She was pressed against a warm chest, and solidly-muscled arms were wrapped around her. She lay on her side in a bed of some sort, stiff and frightened, listening to the steady, strong heartbeat against her ear.

"About bloody time," Ral sighed, shuddering. He flipped her onto her back and loomed over her, his big body lying over hers. "I've prayed for months for you to come back to me, and tonight... I knew if I prayed one more time, you'd come. Damn, I've missed you, Hermione."

His mouth touched down on hers, and his kiss was tender, loving.

Throwing her arms around his neck, Hermione let his touch and taste erased the aching loneliness deep within her. His kiss rocked her soul. A barely-restrained hunger passed between their breaths, even as his tongue plunged in and robbed her of all thought. It was a deep, needy kiss that grew with intensity as he gripped her hands, held them up by her head, and entwined their fingers.

"I've tried to let you go," she whispered as he paused to brush his soft lips over hers, barely touching. "I thought I had to."

"Me, too," he admitted. "I couldn't, though. You fill my head and my heart. The memory of you is sometimes the only thing that gets me through the days."

"Me, too," she admitted, and nipped his bottom lip, wanting him to come back and kiss her again.

He moaned, and above her, his big body shuddered. "I want to make love to you, Hermione, before you disappear again. I feel like... time is always running out on us, and... I don't want to let this chance slip by."

Hovering on the brink of this decision, Hermione considered his request. Should she allow this to happen? If this were all a dream world where they were magically meeting, then as he'd pointed out before, what was the harm of them crossing lines and becoming sexual? It would be strange, yes, but Ral was no stranger, not to her heart. What was between them felt like what he had claimed the last time they'd met: like a part of her belonged to him already, as if they'd known each other somehow before. She didn't believe in past lives as a general principle, but just then, she had to admit that perhaps there might be some truth to the idea, for she felt as if she knew Ral already. It was a weird circular-logic loop that she felt trapped within.

"Would you go slowly?" she asked. "I've never done it before."

Kissing her very softly to ease her concerns, he whispered, "No need to be frightened, love. You know I will."

"I'm not frightened, not with you." She was nervous and anxious to try something she'd never done before, but certainly not afraid with Ral there to guide her.

Ral let out a small sigh of relief, the path before him resolved. "I've wanted you from the first moment I saw you on that train," he admitted, stroking his thumb over her bottom lip. "I can't explain it. I don't understand it myself, but… I need you in a way that goes beyond what we're doing."

Nodding, she said, "Me, too."

Sitting up, he disrobed first himself, then her a piece at a time, moving carefully, but with a confidence that said he'd done this before. That was both reassuring and a bit distracting a thought, honestly, as the woman within her wondered how she measured up against those other witches.

As her body was revealed to him, Ral made her feel beautiful and cherished, but as his Dark Mark came into view, she shuddered and tried not to look directly at it. "Bind it, please. I don't want to see it."

With a few waves of his wand, Ral cast a magical bandage over his forearm, covering it up, then another upon her womb – the Contraceptive Charm that all the girls learned in sixth year Health classes with Madam Pomfrey. When that was done, he placed his wand on the bedside table.

"It'll hurt a little the first time," he told her, laying his naked body over hers and taking her into his arms, "but I'll go slowly, I promise."

With his weight pressing her into the mattress, and the heaviness of his arousal lying against her thigh, Hermione let go of all doubts and fears, and let the moment happen. "I trust you, Ral."

He cupped her cheeks, staring down into her eyes as if seeking reassurance. What he saw in her face seemed to be exactly what he needed, because his tensed muscles relaxed as well. "My Hermione," he sighed with relief, and bent his head to steal her breath away again with his kiss.

This time, his mouth brought wild, destructive pleasure, as he let loose his desire for her. Her body reacted in accord, holding him just as tightly, meeting his kisses with her own elevated need. Their bodies rubbed together, and she could feel the sticky pre-release he put out making her lower belly slick. His mouth and hands were everywhere; no place was left unexplored. Fingers slid down her waist, gripped her thighs, only to nudge them apart. When he ran two of them through her core, finding the slippery wetness that he'd coaxed to life, he groaned.

Dropping down her body, he opened her wide with his hands, and dipped his mouth forward to kiss her fleshy, moist lips. Hermione's legs shook as a wave of restless anticipation shot into the very heart of her. Never in her life had she imagined such pleasure. She twisted beneath Ral's clever tongue as it bathed and coaxed her, worshipping her until her body was dripping wet and desperate. With tears of pleasure rolling down the sides of her face, she came against his mouth in a shattering release that brought her to the very heights of passion, and left her gasping for breath, heart pounding, and mind hazy.

Ral crawled up her body and repositioned himself over her. "Raise your knees for me and hold onto my shoulders," he bid in a soft tone.

She did as he asked, cradling him precisely where he needed to be.

Her lids flickered once, and then she met his concentrated gaze without looking away, noting the shine of her fluids across his lips and chin, and the tenderness reflected in his ice-blue eyes. With controlled force, his hips fell forward and down, pressing the head of him directly against her tender opening. A small thrust, and the stubborn flesh parted. He inched inside.

Stretched tight, she could feel him sliding deeper, pausing, and then pulling back, only to move forward again. In this way, he opened her up, allowed her to adjust to the feel of him with small, shallow strokes going a bit further each time. She hissed as there was a sharp, pinching pain as he went a little deeper, and dug her nails into his skin to tell him to stop. "Almost," he told her, his face a mask of concentration mingled with lust and awe. "Relax and accept me."

She wanted to tell him so many things in that moment, but her jumbled, excited thoughts were lost as he gently surged forward again, and this time, there was a quick, tearing sensation. Holding on tight to his shoulders, all her muscles tensing against the pain, Hermione gave a small cry. He was thicker than she'd expected, and her pelvis ached from accommodating his width. It had hurt, that was no lie, but strangely, it also felt right, as if this was where she was meant to be – in Ral's arms, his body and hers connected in the most intimate way possible.

Ral groaned as he slowly pushed on through her tight inner channel. "All done," he whispered, and pulled his hips back one more time, burying his length to the hilt in her in a smooth forward glide, uniting them at long last. "My sweet girl," he crooned, reaching up to wipe the moisture from the corner of her eyes and to run his fingers through her hair. He tenderly touched her, soothing her. "Are you okay, love?"

"Don't move, please," she requested around a baby whimper. "Just a moment more."

Ral kissed her, whispered affection for her, and held still as she asked. He brushed her hair back from her cheeks, and nuzzled her throat. "You feel so good," he told her. "So good, I want to come right now – buried deep inside you, just like this."

_Please don't let me disappear yet_, she prayed to whoever might be listening, wanting to feel Ral's pleasure, to know how it would be for a man to release within her body and fill her with his seed. She'd already experienced her own orgasm, and it had been wonderful. Now, she wanted to experience his, and to give him that same kind of pleasure.

"You can, if you want," she offered, knowing it would be the end of the sex once he ejaculated, but not minding. He could always make it up to her the next time.

Ral slid a hand down her arm, snuck underneath their pressed bodies, and thumbed across her aching nipple, stroking it in small circles. She groaned, distracted by the electric sensation. Her spine curled, and her hips thrust up in an automatic reaction. The movement didn't cause her pain; the hurt was, in fact, fading. She was still sore, but it wasn't a bad ache, she noticed.

Her lover gave her a naughty smile. "Not yet. I want to see more of that from you first."

With an enthusiastic nod, she let him know it was okay for them to proceed.

They set an easy in-and-out rhythm, and it wasn't long before Hermione realized that the sex no longer hurt at all, and that what they were doing was feeling rather lovely, just as Ral had promised. The wide width of him glided into her at an increasing pace, and soon his thrusts grew heavier, more intense.

Hermione's head fell back into the mattress, and her legs lifted into an instinctual position that would allow him to go deeper into her with each surge forward. In a small push-up motion, Ral braced himself on the palms of his hands over her, separating their bodies, except where he was surging into her. His hips swung loose, while his thighs went taut. Sweat dripped from him onto her chest, and the bed rocked with a loud creaking as their passion ignited and they lost control together.

"Yes, oh, yes," she cried, arching to meet him, holding to his arms for dear life as the melting, churning heat in her womb expanded throughout her body.

He paused only a moment to wrap his arms around her back and to pull her up onto him, even as he sat back onto his haunches. In this position, his long, thick length was buried so deep it was both pleasure and pain – more the former, than the latter, thankfully. "Up and down like this," he taught her, moving his hands on her hips to guide her. From this new angle, her clitoris was massaged on each downward stroke. It caused her to spark and quake with a burning need.

The sounds coming from her mouth surprised her. Hermione made panting, little animal noises of pleasure as her body tightened up, demanding a release. "Oh, please, more," she moaned and demanded, rocking over his body.

"That's it, sweet girl. Take me all the way with you," he coaxed.

She rode him as he directed, flames of unbearable pleasure whipping through her, swelling and growing as she drove him into the ultra-sensitive depths of her body. She held onto him, her arms around his neck, and threw her head back on her shoulders as the pleasure peaked. "Ral!" she keened as she tumbled over the cliff and rushed headlong into ecstasy. "I..._oh,_ _Ral!_"

Her orgasm this time was a shimmering wave of incredible pleasure which crashed over her, making her cry out with joy. Behind her lids, bright detonations of blue stars left her blinded.

"God, Hermione!" her lover groaned as he pulled her down on him a final time. He gave a little gasp, and then his hot semen filled her in pulse after pulse of explosive release. Ral's arms tightened to hold her in place, even as he trembled all over. His lower body jerked with each jet of his seed drawn from him and he moaned in ecstasy as he emptied himself into her.

"Don't leave me again," he murmured against her ear as the last of his tremors finally ebbed away and he slumped against her, panting for breath. "Stay with me this time."

"I'll try," she vowed, and kissed him with her whole heart in her mouth.

Their hands stroked each other everywhere, continuing to touch despite the fact the sex was over. Hermione felt her bond to Ral growing in those tender moments, when words were not necessary. He pulled her as close to him as possible, readjusting her over his lap so that he stayed inside her and they remained connected. She ran her fingers over the sweaty nape of his neck and placed tiny kisses up and down his throat, snuggling into him. When he dragged them both back down onto the mattress, they cuddled under his blankets.

Very soon, he was fast asleep.

Unlike her lover, Hermione's rest didn't come right away. She was frightened that if she closed her eyes, she'd find herself back in her cot in the tent, and all of this would be have been nothing more than a fantastic dream. Instead, she spent the time softly touching Ral, memorizing his features. He had long, sooty lashes, and a gorgeous bone structure. The small, years-old scar on his left cheek was so faded and perfectly placed that it looked like a dimple; she thought it gave his too-perfect face some character, much like Harry's scar and Ron's freckles. His hair was of medium thickness and soft, and definitely in need of a cut, as it was growing past his ears now. In sleep, he looked younger than when he was awake and she wondered how old he was – eighteen, nineteen? The pale skin of his torso and limbs was perfectly unmarred, except for the Dark Mark that she knew lurked under the bindings on his left arm, and a pattern of three moles on his right shoulder. His hands were calloused from time on a broom, so she assumed he'd been a Quidditch player.

Her fingers traced over every muscled ridge on his abdomen, but there she stopped, as the covers prevented her from going further south to explore.

"Scared?" Ral challenged her, a smile slowly curving his lips. His lids were still closed, but clearly, he'd been aware of her examination.

"Not likely. I'm Gryffindor," she retorted with a huff of playful arrogance.

His eyes snapped open and his smile fell. "Gryffindor? But I looked for you in that House. You weren't there."

Hermione went completely still. "And I looked for you in Slytherin and you weren't there either."

His lids flared and he sat up on an elbow. "Are you saying... shit, that one of us truly isn't real then? That this really is all a dream? How? Why?"

"I don't know."

That inconvenient darkness signalling the end of this jaunt crept in along the sides of her vision and Hermione abruptly sat up. "No, no, no!" she shouted, gripping the sides of her head. "Not again! It's happening again! I'm going back. I can't stay!"

Ral reached up and held onto her. "Don't go!"

Desperately, she wrapped her arms around him, even as the darkness was nearly complete. "Ral!"

**~.~.~**

Hermione blinked.

**~.~.~**

The dull grey canvas of the tent above her head came into focus, followed by the musty smell that always seemed to accompany camping out in the wilderness. She knew by the way the light shone through the fabric above that it was daylight now, and from the lack of warmth and presence that Ral was gone again, fading from her mind as only dreams can. Once more, that ache of losing him set in, robbing her of breath.

She rolled over in her cot and began crying again, the sobs ripped from her chest in uncontrollable waves of sadness. Behind her, she heard Harry stand up from his cot and hurriedly leave the tent, her tears chasing him away.

Half an hour later, she pushed herself up, determined that she needed a hot bath. Every muscle was sore, especially those in her pelvis and legs. It hadn't been the first time she'd felt such a thing after a particularly vivid dream, honestly, and it wasn't like she'd had access to potassium in her daily diet to keep her muscles from cramping up. She hadn't eaten a banana in months.

As she moved to get out of bed and sit up, the pain between her legs was immediate and sharp. She looked down...

Why was she naked? Where were her clothes? Was that a sprinkling of _blood_ on the sheets under her?

_Oh... God_, she thought, panicked, realising what it meant.

It wasn't time for her period yet; she still had two weeks to go. It was always possible that it come early because of all of the stress she'd been under from Ron's leaving, though, but for some reason she knew this wasn't the same kind of bleeding as when she had her menses. She'd really lost her virginity.

How was that even possible, though? She'd been in her cot when she'd woken up, naked, but still here in the tent. Surely Harry would have noticed if she'd left on a sleepwalking tour outside, wouldn't he? Even if by some strange chance he hadn't heard her leave, their camp wards would have gone off if she'd crossed them. The only other ways she could have gone missing would have been Disapparition and Portkeying, but those were a noisy business as well. One way or another, Harry would definitely have heard her leaving and would have confronted her about it upon her return. Since he hadn't... Besides, she hadn't felt anything like that weird fish-hook sensation behind her navel at any time during these little 'jaunts' of hers.

Which meant she hadn't left her cot at all. So how was it possible that she could have had sex in Ral's bed at his ancestral home in Corsham?

Maybe she hadn't. Maybe she'd gone to bed naked (although she didn't remember doing so) and used her fingers and done it to herself when she was asleep, dreaming about having sex with Ral. She'd read that a girl could break her own hymen with self-exploration. Examining her fingers, though, she saw no evidence of having masturbated in her sleep – no stickiness, no blood under her nails. Which meant either her dreams were somehow real (which was magically impossible, as far as she knew), or she'd willed her hymen to break in her sleep and it had (which was patently ridiculous).

She gripped her head, confused and upset as the data didn't add up. _I'm really going insane_, she thought. _All those late-night study sessions, Ron leaving us, being hunted down by genocidal maniacs... I've cracked at last._ Strangely, going mad seemed the only possibility that actually might explain everything. The thought terrified her, though, for her mind was all she really had. If she lost it...

A bath. She could use a good, long soak. It would help with her body's aches and her mind's whirling, and it would ground her so she could think her way through the situation. Reaching into her beaded bag again, she withdrew all she needed to enjoy her bath: soap, Epsom salts, and a fluffy towel.

She grabbed her wand, summoned her beaded bag, and pulled out the bathtub she'd shrunk and stuffed in there for their bathing needs when she'd packed everything in advance for this trip. Returning it to regular size and filling it with hot water using a few charms, she then assured a privacy curtain was put up around the area, and climbed in. As she leaned back against the ceramic end of the clawfoot tub, she closed her eyes.

Images of Ral's touches, the weight of him within her and over her, and his kisses flashed through her memories. Even if it had all been nothing more than a fantasy in her mind, making love to him was unlike anything she'd ever experienced, and it would be something she would never, ever forget.

"Ral," she whispered, sleepily, wishing she were back with him in his room, and that the war, Voldemort, and Ron's abandonment were all the dream instead.

Later, Harry would admit that he'd come back into the tent and paused at the curtain to ask if she was okay after her crying spell... only to believe he'd heard her whisper Ron's name.

* * *

_**TO BE CONTINUED...**_

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

**So... consummation. What did you think?**

**To answer a question someone PM'd me about: Why would Hermione continue to insist that her constant run-ins with Ral weren't really happening to her? **

**It's important to remember that Hermione, in novel canon, denies pretty much everything unless she can explain it. That's her defining character trait: she is the rational sceptic who questions everything and then works through it until she has a scientific/objectively explainable answer for it. Very rarely in the story does she trust information second-hand, except in regards to her educational instruction (and even then, she's constantly challenging the professors). ****  
**

**Perhaps the best example of this is when she constantly doubts Harry's pronouncements (i.e. she denies that Thestrals pull the Hogwarts carriages because she can't see them, s****he still has a smidge of doubt that Voldemort is really back despite Cedric's murder - until the Ministry makes it clear that they are going to do everything they can to shut Harry down & cover-up the disappearances going on, **she denies all of Harry's visions of Voldemort - until Arthur is found injured in Book 5 and she has no choice but to admit that Harry knows something about the Dark Lord's movements, she denies Draco is a Death Eater despite his squirrel-ish behaviour all through 6th year, including Katie's curse & Ron's poisoning, etc.). 

**As Hermione can't currently explain the why or how of her strange relationship with Ral, and can only go on guess-work at this point, she's coming up with theories in her head. Without access to research materials, however, AND being constantly on the run from Death Eaters/Snatchers, AND having to consider the horcrux problem, AND needing to riddle through Beedle The Bard, AND dealing with her personal drama involving Ron & friends, she just doesn't have much time to dedicate to really puzzling out the thing going on with Ral and these random fantasy jumps. She's a very busy & distracted girl right now.**

**This is Hermione, however, and you can be assured she is thinking about the problem when there's time. She doesn't sit idle when there's an enigma to work out. Give her time, she'll figure this one out, too... I promise!  
**

**Please review!**


	9. Chapter 9

**~.~.~.~.~.~**

_**Christmas Eve, 1997**_

_**Forest of Dean, Gloucestershire**_

**~.~.~.~.~.~**_**  
**_

The night of their lucky escape from Nagini's clutches in Godric's Hollow had left Hermione utterly exhausted. She not only had had to Side-Along Harry to get his unconscious form back to camp, and then use a Hover Charm to move him inside the tent, but she'd spent the last hour watching over him in growing fear. He'd grown quite ill from the effects of the snake's venom that had been pumped into his body, and the dittany she'd used to counter it was doing a good job, but he was still in obvious pain. He tossed and turned with restlessness, mumbling incoherent words - occasionally shouting them. She fretted constantly at his side, checking his temperature and making sure he didn't thrash too violently and reopen his wounds.

The locket had been a problem as well; it had stuck to Harry's chest for some unfathomable reason, so she'd had to use a Severing Charm to remove it, and then a quick Healing Charm and more dittany to fix the skin and stop the bleeding. Currently, it was around her neck, whispering its evil to her. She attempted to tune it out by reciting the facts behind the Goblin Rebellion of 1612, but kept nodding off in the chair she'd set up at Harry's side. This last time, she'd actually fallen out of her seat, hitting the hard canvas floor and hurting her shoulder.

The hateful tears she tried to keep hidden from Harry as often as possible wavered before her eyes again as she dragged her tired body up off the floor. Blast, she was just so bloody sick of it all! Between the constant need to move their camp to throw off the enemy, trying to keep Harry's spirits up, feeling the pressure of coming up with the locations of the Horcruxes, wondering if Ron was ever coming back, and hearing on the WWN of the casualties mounting by the day, it was all too much for her to take on her small shoulders, Gryffindor brave or not.

...And this _bloody_ locket was driving her mad with its constant, buzzing insinuations and suggestions!

She grabbed the cursed item from around her neck and threw it across the tent as hard as she could.

The instant it was off of her, she felt a weight lift from her soul, and her mood vastly improved. However, she also knew they couldn't risk the dangerous artefact being so far away from one of them. She wouldn't put it back on, but it needed to be temporarily stored somewhere safe, where it couldn't affect either of them. Her beaded bag would do.

Wiping the tears from her face, she resignedly set her wand down and crawled across the tent to where the locket lay against the far wall, near her bunk. On her haunches, she paused to stare at the lovely piece of hand-crafted jewellery. It had probably been worth a fortune before Voldemort had gotten his hands on it and corrupted it. Certainly, it should have belonged in a wizarding museum at the very least, as it had been an important piece of history, belonging to Salazar Slytherin at one point.

"Ral," she whispered, "I wish you were here. I need you." His familiar, comforting scent was a phantom memory in her mind.

As she reached out to grab the locket, her vision grew dark along the sides. She sighed with relief as the fugue took her quickly.

**~.~.~**

Hermione blinked.

**~.~.~**

She was standing in a doorway to what appeared to be a large, personal library in a rather upscale home. Books of every colour and size lined two of the four walls. Directly across from her was a giant stone hearth that looked like something from Medieval times; carvings of various battles were cut into the mantle face. A cheery fire was lit within its depths, warming the room.

Her wand was nowhere in sight.

Stepping further into the room, her trainers sunk into the plush Persian carpet. "Hello," she called out. "Is there anyone here?"

There was no answer.

She took in the measure of the room, walking along the walls, inspecting the books. Most of the titles weren't in English, but in a variety of foreign languages. She stopped as she found one that had that same strange triangle-circle-line diagram that had existed on Ignotus Peverell's grave, and wondered again what it might mean.

Just as she was reaching for the book to pull it from the shelf, the sound of running steps approaching her location echoed from outside the door. Glancing about for a place to hide, she decided to duck underneath the large, mahogany reading desk nearby. Quieting her breathing, she tried to remain as silent and still as possible to avoid detection.

The steps slowed and then the door to the library-study was thrown open. Because of the carpet's luxuriant weave, she was unable to hear the person's footsteps at that point, and so had to strain her hearing for the sound of fabric sliding across fabric as the person prowled about the room.

"Mother? Rolph?" a voice she recognized finally called out. There was a baited pause. "Hermione?"

"Ral!" she called, and scampered out from under the desk, sure it was safe. He wouldn't have said her name aloud otherwise. "I'm here!"

As she made her feet, she was quite suddenly embraced within a pair of warm, strong arms. The familiar scent of liquorice and sweet cloves pervaded her senses, calming her nerves. "Gods above and below, I knew you'd come back to me," he murmured against her ear as he held her tight. "My Hermione."

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, nuzzling her face into his chest, "I can't control this."

He let out a deep, shaky breath. "I figured, sweet girl." With a pull and a bend of his knees, he had her up and in his arms, bridal style, and carried her to a large, leather sofa situated before the hearth. He sat with her in his lap, waved his wand over his shoulder to shut and lock the door to the room, and then tossed his wand aside to reach up and cup her cheek. "Look at me," he bid.

She met his beautiful, blue gaze. There was relief reflected in his eyes – and pain. "It's only been a few weeks, but I missed you," he admitted, leaning forward to place a tender kiss to her lips, "and I worried about you."

With trembling fingers, she touched his face, realizing how very wrong she was to believe this wasn't real. "I'd convinced myself that last time had to be a dream, too, but now... you're real, aren't you? This is all real. Somehow, I'm magically being drawn to you, across the distance."

He shook his head. "I don't know how, I swear it. I haven't cast any spells to call you to me. You just appear when I need you the most." He kissed her again. "Like now. Salazar's bones, I need you!"

"I need you, too," she replied, very much in tune with his thinking. She'd ached for him for the last several weeks, her body craving a repeat of what they'd done together on her previous visit.

In a quick turn, he had her on her back, flat against the leather couch, and he was over her. His mouth devoured hers, even as his hands roamed everywhere, leaving no place untouched. As before, Hermione's thoughts simply deserted her, and there was only sensation left - a need for him that went soul deep, and made her wild heart tremble. Clothes were divested with eagerness, and her legs were spread, and then he was in her again, stretching her open with the thick width of him, driving into her with a fierce, powerful rhythm that pushed her up the sofa. Bracing a hand against the couch arm, she rode out his desperation, wincing when he pressed so deep that he was crowded against the very end of her channel. His mouth greedily stole her breath, his hands held her hips in a tight grip.

It didn't take long for either of them, their desperation for the other a powerful aphrodisiac. "Come," he begged her, reaching between them to rub her tiny clit with an expert touch. "Come, my sweet girl, come!" His other hand reached up to pinch a nipple, and the stimulation was too much. With a wail, Hermione flew into the sky, the pleasure wrapping itself around her in soft wings.

With a muted groan, Ral found his release on the tail end of hers. His hips continued to rock back and forth as he released up inside her.

When his shudders finally stopped, he collapsed on top of her, bracing his weight on an elbow to try to keep from crushing her. "Hermione," he breathed against her neck in hot pants, "where do you go when you leave me? Why does it hurt so much when you disappear? Who are you to me?"

Wrapping her naked limbs around him, she held Ral close, unsure how to reply.

They were quiet for a while, each lost in thought. When her arm started to get that queer pins-and-needles sensation, however, Hermione shifted, breaking the moment. She sighed, resigned to have the conversation she'd been dreading. "Ral, I don't know why this is happening to us, but it hurts me, too, when I leave you. I feel like I'm in mourning whenever I return to where I was. Like... every time we're together is the last time, and I'm always saying goodbye."

He nodded and lifted his head to look her in the eyes. "It's the same for me, but it's so much more. I also feel like there's... time... years that separate us from each other, and I'm aware of them, but I can't get them back for some reason."

Worried he'd think her crazy, Hermione hesitated in telling him one of her theories, but he coaxed her until she finally fessed up. "Well, I'm not much for believing in such things, but... do you suppose we might have had a past life together?"

His eyebrows shot up into his hairline. "I'm not sure." He narrowed his eyes in consideration. "That almost feels right, but... not quite. I feel like I knew you even before the train, but not in a past sense, but a future one. Like I was waiting my whole life for that moment to happen only I didn't know it until it did. Every time we've met since has been the same. I seem to just feel when you're going to appear. Something in me has an overwhelming desire to be in a certain place at a certain time, and when I show up, you do, too. It's like... I'm divining your appearances."

"Or you're magically drawing me to you without realising it," she offered. "Only, I can't for the life of me figure out how you're doing it."

Ral adjusted his hips, and she gasped to feel him still thick and heavy inside her. Her pelvis was canted at the perfect angle to allow him to stay within her, and he took advantage of that to begin seducing her a second time.

"I don't know how this is happening either," he confessed between small kisses, "but this connection I feel to you is the strongest thing I've ever known, Hermione." He rocked in and out of her to a slow, lazy rhythm. "Through it, I know you're mine - that you've_always_ been mine, even when we've been apart. I know that what I feel for you will follow me for the rest of my life, and I'll never feel this way for anyone else." He lowered his face until he was hidden against her throat, as if he were afraid of revealing so much of himself. His whole body shivered as he made love to her again. "I... Hermione, I love you," he whispered. "I think I've always loved you, and... I know I always will."

They made love a second time, and it was slow and sweet.

In the afters, they redressed each other, and there was sadness to the act, as if they both knew their time was running out and she would be leaving again soon. "I still have your clothes from the last time. You left them behind."

So, it was true. They weren't meeting in a dream world, but in real life.

_With magic, anything's possible._

The tears rushed down her cheeks as darkness began creeping into the sides of her vision. Throwing her arms around Ral's neck, she clung to her lover, praying to stay with him, even as she felt the world begin to dissolve away around her.

"Ral, I love you, too," she murmured into his ear, pressing a gentle kiss to it.

Everything went black.

**~.~.~**

Hermione blinked.

**~.~.~**

She was sitting on the floor of the tent, the locket was within reach, but she could barely see it through the haze of her tears. The crushing sorrow of leaving Ral once more felt too heavy to bear, and she leaned on her palms, sobbing, all the time aware that Harry was still unconscious behind her, shouting the occasional, "NO!" aloud as he struggled through his nightmare.

Two hours later, she was back in the chair at his side, her emotional storm calmed for the moment, and the locket safely stowed in her beaded bag. Harry was still asleep, but his fever was gone, his wounds healing nicely. Dawn was coming; she could see the changes of the light through the tent canvas.

It was a new day outside, but somehow, it felt empty to her.

* * *

_**TO BE CONTINUED...**_

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

**The confession of feelings, finally! And some hints about why things are happening, as well as some foreshadowing for the future, too... **

**Next up: the mystery is solved & Hermione gets her answers... just in time.**


End file.
